GIFT   OF 
Glass   of  1907 


&_ 


CAROLINA  FOLK-PLAYS 


THE  PLAYMAKERS'  AIM 

FIRST:  To  promote  and  encourage  dramatic  art, 
especially  by  the  production  and  publishing  of  plays. 

SECOND:  To  serve  as  an  experimental  theatre  for 
the  development  of  plays  representing  the  traditions 
and  various  phases  of  present-day  life  of  the  people. 

THIRD:  To  extend  its  influences  in  the  establish 
ment  of  a  native  theatre  in  other  communities. 


A  PLAY  MAKER   OF  NORTH  CAROLINA 
Harold  Williamson  as  JED  in  his  own  play,  Peggy,  a  tragedy  of  the 
tenant  farmer. 


CAROLINA 
FOLK-PLAYS 

Edited 
With  an  Introduction  on  FOLK-PLAY  MAKING 

By 

FREDERICK  H.  KOCH 
Founder  and  Director  of  The  Carolina  Playmakers 

Illustrated  from  photographs  of  the  original  productions  of 
the  plays 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1922" 


COPYRIGHT,  1922 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


All  of  these  plays  have  been  successfully  produced. 

No  royalty  is  asked  for  performing  rights  when  no  ad 
mission  is  charged.  Otherwise  there  is  a  charge  of  five  dol 
lars  for  each  performance  by  amateurs.  Professional  actors 
must  make  special  arrangements. 

No  performance  of  these  plays  may  be  given  without  full 
acknowledgment  to  The  Carolina  Playmakers,  Inc.,  and  to 
the  publishers.  Acknowledgment  should  be  made  to  read 
as  follows:  "From  the  Carolina  Folk-Plays  edited  by  FRED 
ERICK  H.  KOCH,  Director.  Produced  by  arrangement  with 
The  Carolina  Playmakers,  Inc.,  and  the  publishers." 

For  permission  to  produce  any  of  the  plays  address  FRED 
ERICK  H.  KOCH,  Director,  The  Carolina  Playmakers,  Inc., 
Chapel  Hill,  North  Carolina. 

The  plays  in  this  volume  are  not  printed  so  as  to  indicate 
pronunciation,  and  can  be  read  or  played  anywhere,  upon 
the  terms  given  on  the  back  of  the  title  page.  While  it  would 
be  well,  if  not  too  much  trouble,  for  the  actors  to  study  the 
hints  on  pronunciation  in  the  Appendix,  still,  outside  of  the 
Carolinas,  the  parts  can  be  effectively  played  by  actors  speak 
ing  more  or  less  in  the  manner  of  the  country  folk  in  what 
ever  state  the  play  is  being  presented. 


First  Printing,  Nov.  1922 
Second  Printing,  Feb.  1923 
Third  Printing,  April,  1924 

PRINTED  IN  U.  S.  A. 


TO 

"THE  ONLIE  BEGETTER" 
E-  G. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

AIMS  OF  THE  CAROLINA  PLAYMAKERS     .     .         ii 
FOLK-PLAY  MAKING xi 

By  Frederick  H.  Koch. 

WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE,  a  Play  of  Carolina  Folk 

Superstition 3 

By  Elizabeth  A.  Lay. 

PEGGY,  a  Tragedy  of  the  Tenant  Farmer     .      .        29 
By  Harold  Williamson; 

"DoD  CAST  YE  BOTH  !"  a  Comedy  of  Mountain 

Moonshiners 61 

By  Hubert  Heffner. 

OFF  NAGS  HEAD  or  THE  BELL  BUOY,  a  Trag 
edy  of  the  North  Carolina  Coast      ...        91 
By  Dougald  MacMillan. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 117 

By  Paul  Greene. 

A  Play  of  the  Croatan  Outlaws  of  Robeson  County, 
North  Carolina. 

APPENDIX:   The  Language  of  the  Plays     .      .     149 
By  Tom  Peete  Cross. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  PLAYMAKER  OF  NORTH  CAROLINA  .  Frontispiece 
Harold  Williamson  in  his  own  play  of  PEGGY. 

From  photograph  by  Wooton-Moulton 

PAGE 

Program  Heading-Picture xi 

By  Julius  J.  Lankes 

Scene  from  WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE     .     Facing       18 

From  photograph  by  Wooton-Moulton 

Scene  from  PEGGY Facing       54 

From  photograph  by  Ellington 

The  last  episode  in  "DoD  GAST  YE  BOTH  !" 

Facing       84 

From  photograph  by  Wooton-Moulton 

The  Old  Woman  in  OFF  NAGS   HEAD  or 

THE  BELL  BUOY Facing      96 

From  photograph  by  Wooton-M.ov.ltan 

Scene  from  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES     .     Facing     140 

From  photograph  by  Wooton-Moulton 


FOLK-PLAY  MAKING 

BY  FREDERICK  H.  KOCH 

Founder  of   The  Dakota  Playmakers  and    The 
Carolina  Playmakers 

The  Carolina  Folk-Plays  suggest  the  beginnings  of 
a  new  native  theatre.  They  are  pioneer  plays  of 
North  Carolina  life.  The  stories  and  characters  are 
drawn  by  the  writers  from  their  own  tradition,  and 
from  their  observation  of  the  lives  of  their  own 
people. 

They  are  wholly  native — simple  plays  of  the  locality, 
of  common  experience  and  of  common  interest.  North 
Carolina  is  rich  in  legends  and  in  historical  incident; 
she  is  rich  too  in  the  variety  and  virility  of  her  present- 
day  life.  There  is  in  these  plays  something  of  the  tang 
of  the  Carolina  soil.  There  is  something  of  the  isola 
tion  of  her  mountains  and  their  sheltering  coves; 
something  of  the  sun  and  the  wind  of  the  farm  lands ; 
of  the  shadowy  thickets  of  Scuffletown  Swamp ;  some 
thing,  too,  of  the  loneliness  of  the  lives  of  the  fisher- 
folk  on  the  shifting  banks  of  Nags  Head  or  Cape 
Lookout. 


xii      f,  FOLK-PLAY  MAKING 

They  were  written  by  sons  and  daughters  of  Caro 
lina,  at  Chapel  Hill,  the  seat  of  the  state  university. 
They  have  been  produced  with  enthusiasm  and  success 
by  The  Carolina  Playmakers  in  their  own  town  and 
in  many  towns  all  over  the  state.  The  Carolina  Play- 
makers  is  a  group  of  amateurs — amateurs  in  the  original 
and  full  sense  of  the  word — devoted  to  the  establish 
ment  of  a  theatre  of  cooperative  folk-arts.  Not  a  single 
cloth  has  been  painted  by  an  outsider.  Everything  has 
been  designed  and  made  in  the  home  town  in  a  truly 
communal  way. 

To  be  sure  they  are  plays  of  a  single  section,  of  a 
single  state,  North  Carolina.  But  they  have  a  wider 
significance.  We  know  that  if  we  speak  for  the  human 
nature  in  our  own  neighborhood  we  shall  be  expressing 
for  all.  The  locality,  if  it  be  truly  interpreted,  is  the 
only  universal.  It  has  been  so  in  all  lasting  literature. 
And  in  every  locality  all  over  America,  as  here  in  North 
Carolina  to-day,  there  is  the  need  and  the  striving  for  a 
fresh  expression  of  our  common  folk  life. 

THE    BEGINNINGS    IN    NORTH    DAKOTA 

The  North  Carolina  plays  represent  the  cumulation 
of  years  of  experiment.  The  beginnings  at  the  Uni 
versity  of  North  Dakota,  located  at  Grand  Forks,  were 
simple  enough.  It  is  now  sixteen  j^ears  since  the  writer 
made  the  first  "barn-storming"  tour,  in  1906,  over  the 
treeless  levels  of  Dakota  with  a  company  of  University 
players.  The  play  was  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan's 
admirable  comedy,  The  Rivals,  to  be  followed  in  sue- 


FOLK-PLAY  MAKING  xiii 

ceeding  tours  with  such  old  favorites  as  Goldsmith's 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  Dickens'  Tom  Pinch,  and 
Sheridan  Knowles'  The  Love  Chase.  In  this  way  the 
ground  was  cleared  and  made  ready  for  a  people's 
drama  of  sound  foundations. 

A  remarkable  development  of  dramatic  interest  fol 
lowed,  and  an  enthusiastic  fellowship  of  players  was 
formed.  It  grew,  and  became  in  good  time  a  flourish 
ing  society  of  play-makers — The  Dakota  Playmakers — 
pledged  to  the  production  of  native  plays  of  their  prairie 
country. 

Two  different  types  of  drama  developed  naturally — 
the  pageant,  a  distinctly  communal  form  enlisting 
actively  all  the  people;  and  the  folk-play,  an  intimate 
portrayal  of  the  life  and  character  of  the  people  of 
the  plains. 

DAKOTA  COMMUNAL  DRAMA 

In  the  Dakota  pageantry  a  new  form  of  creative 
literary  work  was  evolved — communal  authorship. 
The  historical  Pageant  of  the  North-West  in  1914,  and 
the  tercentenary  masque,  Shakespeare,  The  Playmaker, 
in  1916,  were  designed  and  written  entirely — dialogue, 
poetry,  and  music — by  a  group  of  these  amateur  Play- 
makers  in  collaboration,  eighteen  in  the  first  case  and 
twenty  in  the  second.  And  the  published  play-books 
proved  that  the  people  themselves,  when  rightly 
directed,  could  create  their  own  dramatic  forms,  in 
phrases  "filled  with  liveliness  and  humor,  and  with  no 
little  imagination"  in  a  cooperative  native  drama 


xiv  FOLK-PLAY  MAKING 

"never  amateurish  and  sometimes  reaching  a  high  lit 
erary  level."  l 

Such  production  required  a  theatre  in  the  open. 
There  was  no  hill-slope  and,  by  the  necessity  of  the 
prairie  land,  a  new  type  of  native  theatre  was  dis 
covered.  So  the  Bankside  Theatre  came  to  be  "the 
first  open-air  theatre  to  make  use  of  the  natural  curve 
of  a  stream  to  separate  the  stage  from  the  amphi 
theatre,"1  and  a  contribution  was  made  of  permanent 
value  in  the  history  of  the  out-door  stage. 

In  succeeding  years  of  this  renaissance — for  such 
indeed  it  proved  to  be — The  Dakota  Playmakers  car 
ried  out  over  the  state  their  new-found  means  of 
dramatic  expression,  directing  the  country  people  in 
many  parts  of  North  Dakota  in  the  writing  and  staging 
of  pageants  and  plays  of  their  own  local  traditions. 

DAKOTA    FOLK-PLAYS 

At  the  same  time  The  Playmakers  at  the  university 
were  busy  writing  for  their  improvised  "Play-Stage" 
a  variety  of  simple  folk-plays  portraying  scenes  of  ranch 
and  farm  life,  adventures  of  the  frontier  settlers,  inci 
dents  of  the  cowboy  trails. 

Then  they  toured  the  state  with  their  new-made 
Prairie  Plays  using  a  simple  portable  stage  of  their  own 
devising.  And  the  people  in  the  towns  visited  received 
them  with  wonder  and  enthusiasm.  They  knew  them 
for  their  own,  and  were  honestly  proud  and  happy 
about  it.  Everybody  said,  "Come  again,  and  we'll  give 

i  "Dakotan  Discoveries  in  Dual  Dramaturgy,"  by  Hiram  K.  Moder- 
in  The  Boston  Evening  Transcript,  September  30,  1916. 


FOLK-PLAY  MAKING  xv 

you  a  bigger  audience  next  time!"     The  little  folk- 
play  had  found  its  own. 

Typical  of  these  prairie  plays  perhaps  is  Barley 
Beards  by  Howard  DeLong,  who  was  born  of  French 
homesteaders  in  a  sod  shanty  forty  miles  from  the  rail 
road.  Barley  Beards  deals  with  an  I.  W.  W.  riot  in 
a  North  Dakota  threshing  crew  and  is  based  on  young 
DeLong's  experiences  on  a  Dakota  wheat  farm  at 
harvest  time.  The  author  himself  designed  and  painted 
the  scenery,  and  acted  a  leading  part  in  his  play. 

Other  one-act  pieces  of  this  type  are :  Back  on  the 
Old  Farm  by  Arthur  Cloetingh,  suggesting  the  futility 
of  the  "high-brow"  education  when  it  goes  back  to  the 
country  home  at  Long  Prairie ;  Dakota  Dick,  by  Harold 
Wylie,  a  comedy  of  the  Bad  Lands  of  the  frontier  days  ; 
and  Me  an  Bill,  by  Ben  Sherman  of  Judith  Basin, 
Montana,  a  tragedy  of  the  "loony"  sheep-herder,  well- 
known  to  the  playwright,  and  his  love  of  the  lonely 
shepherd's  life  on  the  great  plains: 

"You  are  out  there  on  the  plains,  under  the  blue 
sky,  with  the  soft  winds  a-singin'  songs  to  you.  Free — 
God,  but  you're  free!  You  get  up  in  the  morning  to 
meet  the  sun;  you  throw  out  your  arms,  breathe  into 
your  lungs  life;  and  it  makes  you  live — it  makes  you 
live!  It  is  the  same  feelin'  He  had.  He  wanted  to 
live  for  his  sheep.  (Then  addressing  his  spectral  dog 
he  chuckles  to  himself.)  Did  you  catch  him,  Shep?" 

Full  of  the  poetry  of  the  North-West  country  are 
the  words  of  Tim  Nolan  in  the  romance  of  the  old 
Irish  pioneer  in  For  the  Colleen  by  Agnes  O'Connor : 


xvi  FOLK-PLAY  MAKING 

"Hers  was  the  face  that  Vd  haunt  the  heart  and 
the  dreams  of  such  a  lonely  Irish  lad  as  Tim  Nolan 
was,  on  the  big  prairie.  And  I  began  to  work  my 
claim  as  I'd  never  done  before — dreamin'  all  the  time 
of  a  little  home.  Just  a  wee  house  with  a  white  picket 
fence  around  it — with  wild  roses  growin'  everywhere. 
Just  Mary  and  me,  and  the  green  of  the  grass,  and  the 
spring  winds  blowin'  fresh,  and  the  meadow-lark 
singinV 

Such  are  the  country  folk-plays  of  Dakota — simple 
plays,  sometimes  crude,  but  always  near  to  the  good, 
strong,  wind-swept  soil.  They  tell  of  the  long  bitter 
winters  in  the  little  sod  shanty.  But  they  sing  too  of 
the  springtime  of  unflecked  sunshine,  of  the  wilder 
ness  gay  with  wild  roses,  of  the  fenceless  fields  welling 
over  with  lark  song!  They  are  plays  of  the  travail 
and  the  achievement  of  a  pioneer  people. 

THE  CAROLINA  PLAYMAKERS 

The  work  of  The  Dakota  Playmakers  was  noted  in 
various  parts  of  the  country.  In  North  Carolina,  Dr. 
Edwin  Greenlaw,  Head  of  the  Department  of  Eng 
lish  in  the  state  university,  saw  a  rich  field  for  the 
making  of  a  native  folk  drama.  His  insight  and  con 
tinuing  loyalty  have  made  possible  the  remarkable 
growth  of  the  idea  there. 

North  Carolina  extends  more  than  five  hundred 
miles  from  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains  on  the  western 
border  to  the  treacherous  shoals  of  Hatteras.  In  the 
backlands  of  these  mountains  and  among  the  dunes  of 


FOLK-PLAY  MAKING  xvii 

the  shifting  coast  line  may  be  found  "neighborhoods" 
where  the  customs  of  the  first  English  settlers  still  pre 
vail,  where  folk-tales  still  survive  in  words  and  phrase 
long  since  obsolete  to  us,  handed  down  by  word  of 
mouth  from  one  generation  to  another  through  all  the 
years  of  their  isolation. 

And  in  North  Carolina,  too,  we  have  the  ballads 
and  the  lore  of  an  outlived  past  side  by  side  with  the 
new  life  of  the  present  day.  Here  are  still  the  fine  old 
families  of  the  first  Cavaliers  and  the  children  of  the 
plantation  days  of  the  Old  South.  In  contrast  with 
these  is  the  dreary  "one-horse"  farm  of  the  poor  white 
tenant  and  the  shiftless  negro.  In  greater  contrast,  per 
haps,  is  the  toil  of  the  thousands  of  workers  at  the  roar 
ing  mills. 

North  Carolina  is  still  without  large  cities,  and  a 
strong  folk-consciousness  persists.  The  State  is  still 
regarded  by  the  people  as  a  family  of  "folks,"  due  to 
the  fact  that  the  population  is  almost  pure  Anglo  Saxon 
and  still  remarkably  homogeneous.  For  all  the  changing 
industrial  conditions  less  than  two  per  cent  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  State  are  of  foreign  birth  or  par 
entage.  Here  the  home  talents  are  still  cherished  as 
a  means  of  genuine  enjoyment.  The  people  have  not 
broken  their  connections  with  the  big  family  of  the 
country  folks.  They  have  retained  their  birthright  of 
pleasure  in  simple  things.  It  is  not  strange  that  from 
such  a  spirit  of  neighborliness  a  native  drama  should 
spring. 

A  new  fellowship  of  Playmakers  came  naturally  in 


xviii  FOLK-PLAY  MAKING 

the  fall  of  1918.  There  was  no  formal  organization 
at  first.  Membership  in  The  Carolina  Playmakers  was 
open  to  all.  Anyone  who  did  anything  toward  the 
making  of  a  play  was  counted  a  Playmaker.  It  was 
truly  a  society  of  amateurs  in  cooperative  folk-arts. 

Already  a  wide  range  of  original  folk-plays  have 
come.  They  were  written  in  the  University  course  in 
Dramatic  Composition,  and  produced  by  The  Play- 
makers  on  a  home-made  stage,  constructed  by  them 
for  the  purpose,  in  the  auditorium  of  the  Public  School 
building  at  Chapel  Hill. 

The  initial  program  consisted  of  What  Will  Barbara 
Say?  a  romance  of  Chapel  Hill  by  Minnie  Shepherd 
Sparrow  who  essayed  the  leading  part;  The  Return  of 
Buck  Gavin,  a  tragedy  of  a  mountain  outlaw,  by 
Thomas  C.  Wolfe,  of  Asheville,  who  made  his  debut 
as  a  player  in  the  title  role  of  this  his  first  play;  and 
When  Witches  Ride,  a  play  of  North  Carolina  folk- 
superstition  drawn  largely  by  the  young  author, 
Elizabeth  A.  Lay,  from  her  own  experiences  while 
teaching  in  a  country  school  in  Northampton  County. 
The  prologue,  Our  Heritage,  written  by  Miss  Lay 
for  the  occasion,  expresses  beautifully  The  Playmakers' 
faith : 

We  mock  with  facts  the  Southern  folk-belief, 
And  so  forget  the  eternal  quest  that  strove 
With  signs  and  tales  to  symbolize  the  awe 
Of  powers  in  heaven  and  earth  still  undefined. 
Yet  we  may  catch  the  child-like  wondering 
Of  our  old  negroes  and  the  country  folk, 
And  live  again  in  simple  times  of  faith 


FOLK-PLAY  MAKING  xix 

And  fear  and  wonder  if  we  stage  their  life. 
Then  witches  ride  the  stormy,  thundering  sky, 
And  signs  and  omens  fill  believing  minds ; 
Then  old  traditions  live  in  simple  speech 
And  ours  the  heritage  of  wondering! 

The  production  was  entirely  home-made;  the 
scenery  as  well  as  the  settings,  costumes,  and  make-up 
all  done  in  the  little  home  town.  Miss  Lay  tells  how 
she  scoured  the  countryside  to  find  a  log  cabin  to  serve 
as  a  model  for  the  scene  in  her  initial  play,  When 
Witches  Ride,  how  she  "sketched  the  details  and  drew 
in  the  logs  on  the  big  canvases,"  and  how  after 
"weeks  of  experiment  with  the  new  kind  of  paint — 
weeks  in  which  the  scene  resembled  a  layer  cake  or  a 
striped  flag  more  than  anything  else" — finally  the 
medium  was  mastered  and  a  really  creditable  log  cabin 
set  achieved. 

The  first  performance  of  new  plays  is  an  event  long 
to  be  remembered.  There  is  a  feeling  of  intimate 
interest,  an  almost  childlike  excitement  on  the  part  of 
everyone — townspeople,  students  and  professors  alike. 
This  is  their  play,  written  by  one  of  their  own  number. 
These  are  their  players,  and  all  are  Playmakers  to 
gether. 

It  is  an  interesting  experience  to  participate  with 
the  audience  in  such  a  performance.  "If  the  log  cabin 
used  in  a  play  of  fisher-people  contains  logs  larger  than 
the  trees  in  that  section,"  Miss  Lay  remarked  one  day, 
"if  the  rocks  in  the  fireplace  could  not  have  existed,  in 
that  locality,  if  there  is  a  flaw  in  the  dialect,  the  author 


xx  FOLK-PLAY  MAKING 

and  producer  will  be  sure  to  hear  about  it."  For  the 
audience  is  genuinely  interested  in  the  reality  of  the 
play  and  the  stage  picture  must  be  true  to  the  life,  even 
in  the  least  details. 

The  play  is  Peggy,  perhaps.  The  curtain  discloses 
the  shabby  interior  of  a  tenant  cabin.  It  is  a  familiar 
sight — just  such  a  drab-looking  cabin  in  the  red  fields 
as  each  person  present  has  passed  by  many  times  with 
out  thought  or  interest.  Mag,  the  jaded  farm  woman 
with  snuff-stick  protruding  from  the  corner  of  her 
mouth,  is  getting  supper,  singing  snatches  of  an  old 
ballad  as  she  works.  She  is  a  commonplace  figure.  But 
in  the  play  she  becomes  a  character  of  new  and  com 
pelling  interest.  Spontaneous  guffaws  of  laughter 
greet  this  actual  appearance  upon  their  stage  of  the 
"sorry-looking,"  snuff-spitting  character  so  familiar  to 
them.  But  presently  all  are  moved  to  feel  with  the 
actors  the  tragic  fact  of  her  hard-won  existence.  Then, 
it  seemed  to  me,  that  the  dividing  footlights  were  gone 
— that  the  audience  had  actually  joined  with  the  actors 
and  become  a  part  of  the  play  itself.  It  had  become 
a  living  truth  to  them. 

The  author,  Harold  Williamson,  is  playing  the  part 
of  Jed,  the  stolid,  good-hearted  farmhand,  with  a 
homely  sincerity  and  naturalness  which  recalls  the 
work  of  the  Irish  Players.  Sympathy,  simplicity,  the 
abandonment  of  self  in  the  reality  of  the  scene — these 
qualities  in  the  acting  serve  to  unite  the  people  in  the 
audience  with  the  players  on  the  stage.  It  is  life  itself 
before  them  "that  moves  and  feels." 


FOLK-PLAY  MAKING  xxi 

The  plays  produced  in  these  first  years  have  revealed 
a  remarkable  variety  of  materials  and  forms. 

Representative  of  the  farm  plays  are  such  tragedies 
of  revolt  as  Peggy,  The  Miser  and  The  Lord's  Will. 
Thesecondof  these centresinthecharacterof  old  Wash 
Lucas,  "the stingiest  man  living  in  Harnett County," 
who  hoards  his  wealth  in  a  steel  box  and  starves  the 
lives  of  his  children.  After  seeing  this  piece  when  it 
was  presented  in  Raleigh  on  The  Playmakers'  State 
Tour  last  season,  one  remarked,  "I  know  every  member 
of  that  family.  It  is  every  bit  true !"  The  Lord's  Will 
has  the  same  poignant  reality.  It  tells  the  story  of  a 
country  preacher,  Lem  Adams,  the  itinerant  revivalist 
of  the  "tent-meetings,"  well  known  in  the  rural  dis 
tricts  of  North  Carolina.  It  is  the  tragedy  of  a  de- 
feated  dreamer.  In  contrast  with  these  are  Dogwood 
Bushes  and  In  Dixons  Kitchen,  comedies  of  the  Caro 
lina  springtime,  of  the  dogwoods  and  the  peach  trees 
all  in  bloom,  and  the  old,  old  story  of  a  country  court 
ship. 

There  are  plays  of  daring  outlaws,  the  Croatan  gang 
in  The  Last  of  the  Lowries  from  the  southern  part  of 
the  State;  and  mountain  plays  of  moonshiners  and 
adventurers  such  as  Dod  Cast  Ye  Both!,  Reward 
Offered,  The  Return  of  Buck  Gavin,  and  the  ghost-tale 
of  The  Third  Night.  There  are  colorful  themes  from 
Colonial  times — the  strange  legend  of  The  Old  Alan  of 
Edenton,  the  wistful  fantasy  of  Trista,  the  haunting 
mystery  of  Theodosia  Burr  in  Off  Nags  Head;  plays 
of  the  folk-belief  in  the  supernatural  as  in  The  Hag 


xxii  FOLK-PLAY  MAKING 

and  in  the  brave  sea-play  Blackbeard,  Pirate  of  the 
Carolina  Coast,  with  the  gallant  song  of  Bloody  Ed, 
the  buccaneer : 

In  a  winding  shroud  of  green  seaweed 

There  many  a  dead  man  lies — 
And  the  waves  above  them  glitter  at  night 

With  the  stare  of  the  dead  men's  eyes. 
No  rest,  no  sleep,  ten-fathom  deep 

They  watch  with  their  glittering  eyes. 

Forever  washed  by  the  deep  sea-tides 

With  the  changing  coral  sands, 
For  their  treasured  gold  in  their  own  deep  graves 

They  search  with  their  bony  hands. 
No  rest,  no  sleep,  ten-fathom  deep 

They  dig  with  their  bony  hands. 

There  are  also  plays  of  North  Carolina  to-day — 
serious  pieces  like  Who  Pays,  suggested  by  an  incident 
which  occurred  during  a  strike  in  a  southern  city,  and 
The  Reaping,  dealing  with  a  social  problem  based  on 
the  Doctor's  Report,  side  by  side  with  the  amusing 
sketches  of  college  life  like  The  Vamp  and  The  Chat 
ham  Rabbit  done  in  the  picturesque  phrase  of  our 
student  vernacular ;  and  Waffles  for  Breakfast,  a  happy 
satire  of  newly  married  life. 

Not  the  least  significant  are  the  plays  written  for  a 
negro  theatre,  such  as  the  realistic  Granny  Doling,  The 
Fighting  Corporal,  a  rollicking  comedy  of  the  undoing 
of  a  braggart  soldier  just  back  from  "de  big  war  in 
France,"  and  White  Dresses,  the  story  of  Old  Aunt 
Candace  and  her  niece,  Mary  McLean,  a  pretty  quad- 


FOLK-PLAY  MAKING  xxiii 

roon  girl.  Aunt  Candace  becomes  the  embodiment  of 
her  race,  and  her  words  to  Mary  conclude  the  stark 
tragedy  of  the  race  problem:  "I  knows  yo'se  got 
feelin's,  chile.  But  yo'se  got  to  smother'  em  in.  Yo'se 
got  to  smother  'em  in." 

In  preparing  the  texts  of  the  plays  the  aim  has  been 
to  preserve  the  naturalness  of  the  speech.  The  spell 
ing  of  the  dialect  has  been  simplified  as  much  as  possi 
ble  without  destroying  the  distinguishing  local  char 
acteristics  of  the  language  as  spoken  in  North  Caro 
lina.  The  Southern  dialect  is  hard  to  represent  in 
print.  In  the  task  of  editing  the  dialect  of  the  plays 
The  Playmakers  are  indebted  to  the  expert  and  de 
voted  services  of  Professor  Tom  Peete  Cross,  formerly 
of  the  University  of  North  Carolina,  now  of  the  Uni 
versity  of  Chicago.  The  results  of  his  scholarly  zeal 
in  this  difficult  field  are  admirably  summarized  in  his 
article  on  "The  Language  of  the  Plays"  prepared  for 
the  appendix  to  this  volume.  It  will  serve  as  an 
invaluable  guide  to  the  player  in  the  pronunciation 
of  the  vernacular  as  spoken  in  the  South. 

A  brief  statement  of  the  sources  of  the  plays 
included  in  this  volume  will  suggest  to  the  reader  the 
nature  and  the  variety  of  our  Carolina  materials. 


WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE 

The  characters  and  the  superstition  in  this  play 
were  drawn  largely  from  the  author's  observation  as  a 
country  school  teacher  in  Northampton  County,  North 


xxiv  FOLK-PLAY  MAKING 

Carolina.  The  idea  of  the  plot  is  based  on  the  fol 
lowing  account  of  the  actual  character,  Phoebe  Ward, 
given  in  an  article  by  Professor  Tom  Peete  Cross  of  the 
University  of  Chicago  on  "Folk-Lore  from  the  South 
ern  States,"  published  in  The  Journal  of  American 
Folk-Lore,  Volume  XXII  (1909). 

"The  early  years  of  Phoebe  Ward,  witch,  are 
shrouded  in  mystery.  .  .  .  She  lived  here  and  there, 
first  at  one  place  and  then  at  another  in  Northampton 
County,  North  Carolina.  She  stayed  in  a  hut  or  any 
shelter  whatsoever  that  was  granted  her. 

"She  made  her  living  begging  from  place  to  place. 
Most  people  were  afraid  to  refuse  her,  lest  she  should 
apply  her  witchcraft  to  them.  .  .  .  Hence  the  people 
resorted  to  a  number  of  methods  to  keep  her  away. 
For  instance,  when  they  saw  her  coming,  they  would 
stick  pins  point-up  in  the  chair  bottoms,  and  then  offer 
her  one  of  these  chairs.  It  is  said  that  she  could  always 
tell  when  the  chair  was  thus  fixed,  and  would  never 
sit  in  it.  Also  they  would  throw  red  pepper  into  the 
fire,  and  Phoebe  would  leave  as  soon  as  she  smelled 
it  burning.  .  .  . 

"Among  her  arts  it  is  said  that  she  could  ride  per 
sons  at  night  (the  same  as  nightmares),  that  she  could 
ride  horses  at  night,  and  that  when  the  mane  was 
tangled  in  the  morning  it  was  because  the  witch  had 
made  stirrups  of  the  plaits.  She  was  said  to  be  able 
to  go  through  key-holes.  .  .  .  She  was  credited  with 
possessing  a  sort  of  grease  which  she  could  apply  and 


FOLK-PLAY  MAKING  xxv 

then  slip  out  of  her  skin  and  go  out  on  her  night  ram 
bles,  and  on  her  return  get  back  again." 

PEGGY 

The  characters  in  this  play  were  drawn  from  life. 
"Although  far  from  typical  of  North  Carolina,  such 
conditions  as  are  here  portrayed  are  not  uncommon  in 
some  localities,"  the  author  writes.  "The  action  of  the 
play  is  a  true  transcript  of  the  family  life  of  the  charac 
ters  in  the  play,  as  I  have  known  them  in  real  life." 

"DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!" 

This  is  a  play  dealing  with  moonshiners  of 'west 
ern  North  Carolina.  It  is  a  comedy  of  folk  char 
acters  lifted  out  of  contemporary  life  and  portrayed 
through  the  medium  of  drama. 

A  group  of  mountaineers,  lounging  around  a  block 
ade  still  which  nestled  in  a  thicket  of  rhododendron 
and  laurel  on  the  side  of  Grandfather  Mountain,  one 
summer  day  not  long  ago  decided  to  play  a  trick  on  old 
Noah  Setzer,  a  moonshiner  and  boss  of  the  Ridge,  by 
telling  him  that  his  daughter  Mary  had  "fell"  for  a 
certain  suspicious  stranger  who  had  come  into  those 
parts  and  who  was  believed  to  be  a  "revenooer."  Out 
of  this  prank  and  the  results  that  came  from  it,  the 
plot  was  developed. 

After  writing  the  play,  the  author  took  it  back  to 
the  Hills  and  read  it  to  Noah  one  winter  evening  by 
his  still.  To  find  himself  in  a  play  and  to  hear  his  very 
words  spoken  again  quite  amazed  and  delighted  the  old 
man.  He  laughed  as  he  heard  again  how  he  had  been 


xxvi  FOLK-PLAY  MAKING 

fooled  into  getting  a  "revenooer"  for  a  son-in-law.  As 
he  got  up  to  stir  his  mash,  he  said,  "But  hit  was  a  kind 
o'  unnad'ral  joke  to  pull  on  me  atter  all !" 

Last  summer  on  the  occasion  of  another  visit  to  the 
scene  of  his  play,  Mr.  Heffner,  the  author,  found  old 
Sank,  the  boot-legger  for  old  Noah  (whose  part  he 
himself  played  in  the  original  cast)  in  jail  for  moon- 
shining. 

OFF  NAGS  HEAD,  or  THE  BELL  BUOY 

In  the  winter  of  1812,  according  to  the  legend,  a 
pilot  boat  drifted  ashore  at  Kitty  Hawk,  near  Nags 
Head,  on  the  coast  of  North  Carolina.  In  the  cabin, 
among  other  evidences  of  the  presence  on  the  boat  of  a 
woman  of  wealth  and  refinement,  was  found  a  portrait 
of  a  lady.  The  "bankers,"  the  rough,  half  barbarous 
inhabitants  of  the  islands  along  the  North  Carolina 
coast,  cut  off  from  the  moderating  influences  of  main 
land  civilization,  were  in  the  habit  of  regarding  all 
driftwood,  regardless  of  its  size  or  condition,  as  their 
own  property.  They  fell  upon  deserted  vessels  and 
demolished  them.  This  small  pilot  boat  was  treated 
in  the  customary  manner.  The  portrait  fell  into  the 
hands  of  a  fisherman,  on  whose  walls  it  hung  for  many 
years. 

In  1869,  Dr.  William  G.  Pool  was  called  in  to 
see,  near  Nags  Head,  an  old  fisherwoman,  who  was 
sick.  He  found  the  portrait,  secured  possession  of  it 
and  its  story,  and  later  identified  the  subject  as  Theo- 
dosia  Burr,  daughter  of  Aaron  Burr. 


FOLK-PLAY  MAKING  xxvii 

In  a  small  pilot  boat,  The  Patriot,  on  December  30, 
1812,  Mrs.  Theodosia  Burr  Alston  sailed  from 
Georgetown,  South  Carolina,  for  New  York,  where 
she  expected  to  join  her  father  who  had  just  returned 
from  exile.  The  Patriot  did  not  reach  New  York; 
neither  it  nor  any  of  its  crew  or  passengers  was  ever 
heard  of  again.  The  commonly  accepted  story  is  that 
the  boat  was  taken  by  pirates  and  the  persons  on  board 
forced  to  walk  the  plank. 

These  are  the  two  stories. 

The  "bankers"  of  the  North  Carolina  coast  are 
known,  at  this  time,  not  to  have  confined  their  wreck 
ing  activities  to  the  victims  that  chance  threw  in  their 
way.  They  evolved  a  scheme  by  which  vessels  were 
lured  upon  the  sandy  beach  by  a  light  fastened  to  a 
horse's  head,  which  from  a  distance  looked  like  a  ship 
at  anchor,  or  moving  slowly.  When  the  deluded  ship 
came  aground,  these  land  pirates  boarded  it  and, 
killing  the  persons  on  board,  plundered  the  vessel. 

These  things,  told  by  Miss  Pool  in  The  Eyrie*  and 
a  suggestion  made  by  her  furnish  the  basis  for  Off 
Nags  Head.  Miss  Pool  says,  "It  is  not  improbable 
that  The  Patriot  during  a  night  of  storm  was  lured 
ashore  by  a  decoy  light  at  Nags  Head,  and  that  pas 
sengers  and  crew  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  land 
pirates  in  waiting,  who  possessed  themselves  of  the  boat 
and  everything  of  value  it  contained. 

*  The  Eyrie  and  Other  Southern  Stories  by  Bettie  Freshwater  Pool. 
New  York.  1905. 


xxviii  FOLK-PLAY  MAKING 

THE   LAST  OF  THE   LOWRIES 

This  play  is  based  on  the  account  given  by  Mrs. 
Mary  C.  Norment  in  The  Lowrle  History  (Daily 
Journal  Print,  Wilmington,  N.  C.,  1875).  Part  of 
the  action  is  not  historical.  In  reality  Steve  Lowrie 
and  not  Henry  Berry  was  the  last  of  the  gang. 

The  Lowries  were  a  famous  band  of  outlaws  of 
mixed  blood,  part  Croatan  Indian.  In  the  latter  part 
of  the  Civil  War  many  of  the  Croatans  in  Robeson 
County  were  opposed  to  the  conscription  of  men  by 
the  Confederate  Government  for  work  on  the  fortifi 
cations  along  Cape  Fear.  Among  these  were  the 
Lowrie  boys,  who  killed  an  officer  sent  to  arrest  them 
for  evading  the  law.  After  this,  the  Lowries  con 
cealed  themselves  in  Scuffletown  Swamp  where  they 
were  supplied  with  food  by  their  sympathizers.  As  the 
gang  grew  in  size  it  began  to  act  on  the  offensive 
instead  of  the  defensive,  and  soon  it  spread  terror 
throughout  the  county,  robbing,  plundering,  and  kill 
ing  when  necessary.  For  more  than  ten  years  the 
gang  held  out  against  the  officers  of  the  law  and  only 
in  1874  was  the  last  Lowrie  killed. 

No  particular  effort  is  made  to  follow  the  intricacies 
of  the  Croatan  dialect.  But  the  following  charac 
teristics  of  pronunciation  will  be  of  aid  in  giving  the 
play  local  color. 

The  typical  Croatan  of  1874  spoke  with  a  peculiar 
drawl  in  his  voice,  most  often  pronouncing  his  /  like 
df  as  "better,"  bedder;  c  or  ck  was  pronounced  like  g, 
as  "back,"  bag;  short  a  like  short  o,  as  "man,"  mon. 


FOLK-PLAY  MAKING  xxix 

Sometimes  g  was  sounded  as  d,  as  "loving,"  lovind. 
Even  now  there  is  little  change  in  the  dialect  of  the 
uneducated  Croatans. 

In  the  woodcut  at  the  beginning  of  this  article, 
designed  by  Mr.  Julius  J.  Lankes  as  a  program- 
heading  for  The  Carolina  Playmakers,  a  mountaineer 
on  one  side  and  a  pirate  on  the  other  draw  the  curtains 
on  a  Carolina  Folk-Play,  The  Last  of  the  Lowries, 
suggesting  the  wide  range  of  materials  from  which 
these  plays  are  drawn. 

Such  are  the  Carolina  Folk-Plays. 

They  have  been  welcomed  in  towns  and  cities  all 
over  North  Carolina.  It  is  the  hope  of  our  Playmakers 
that  they  will  have  something  of  real  human  interest 
for  the  big  family  of  our  American  folk  beyond  the 
borders  of  Carolina. 

There  is  everywhere  an  awakening  of  the  folk-con 
sciousness,  which  should  be  cherished  in  a  new  republic 
of  active  literature.  As  did  the  Greeks  and  our  far- 
seeing  Eliabethan  forebears,  so  should  we,  the  people 
of  this  new  Renaissance,  find  fresh  dramatic  forms  to 
express  our  America  of  to-day — our  larger  conception 
of  the  kingdom  of  humanity. 

Toward  this  The  Carolina  Playmakers  are  hoping 
to  contribute  something  of  lasting  value  in  the  making 
of  a  new  folk  theatre  and  a  new  folk  literature. 

Chapel  Hill,  North  Carolina. 
September  30,  IQ22. 


WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

As  originally  produced  at  The  Play-House,  Chapel 
Hill,  North  Carolina,  March  14  and  IS, 


UNCLE  BENNY,  owner  of  the  crossroads  store, 

George  McF.  McKic 

ED,  his  son,  Walter  H.  Williamson 

JAKE,  formerly  a  railroad  engineer,        George  Denny 
PHOEBE  WARD,  witch  Alga  E.  Leavitt 

SCENE:  The  storehouse  of  a  cross-roads  store.  The 
action  takes  place  in  the  back  country  of  North 
Carolina,  near  the  Roanoke  River,  at  a  time  when 
the  people  of  Northampton  County  still  believed 
in  witches.  A  stormy  night. 


SCENE 

^  m  ^J  HE  storehouse  of  a  cross-roads  store. 

t  The  room  is  a  typical  log  cabin,  roughly 

built.  Red  peppers ,  herbs,  and  dried  vegetables 
hang  from  the  low  rafters.  Boxes  and  bales  are  piled 
in  disorder  among  farm  implements,  kitchen  utensils, 
and  miscellaneous  articles  from  the  stock  of  a  cross 
roads  general  store.  Dust  and  cobwebs  are  everywhere. 
In  the  back  wall  at  the  right  a  small  opening  cut  in  the 
logs  serves  as  a  window,  with  a  rough  shutter  hinged 
loosely  at  the  right  side.  The  door  in  the  back  wall 
at  the  left  is  hidden  by  a  dirty  sheet,  hung  over  it  to 
keep  out  the  cold  air.  In  the  right  side-wall  is  a  huge 
stone  fireplace  in  which  a  hot  fire  blazes,  the  opening 
being  nearly  filled  with  logs.  A  large  supply  of  wood 
is  piled  beside  the  fireplace  at  the  right.  A  big  jug  of 
liquor  stands  on  a  box  in  that  corner.  There  is  a  rough 
bench  in  front  of  the  fire.  In  the  front  at  the  left  is  a 
table.  Three  lighted  candles,  a  small  straw-covered 
jug,  mugs  of  liquor,  and  coins  are  on  the  table. 

ED,  JAKE,  and  UNCLE  BENNY  are  seated  around 
the  table,  playing  cards  and  drinking.  Outside  the 
storm  is  gathering. 

UNCLE  BENNY  is  very  old.  His  face  is  wrinkled 
and  weather-beaten.  He  has  no  teeth  and  is  nearly 
bald.  He  wears  an  old  shirt  and  rusty  trousers. 

3 


4  WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE 

ED  is  middle-aged,  red  of  face,  very  tall  and  lank. 
His  shoulders  droop  and  his  whole  appearance  is  that 
of  slouchiness.  He  wears  a  dirty  shirt  with  sleeves 
rolled  up,  and  ragged  overalls. 

JAKE  is  older  than  ED.  He  is  burly  and  strong,  com 
manding  respect  from  the  others  who  fear  his  bad 
temper.  He  is  something  of  a  bully.  He  wears  a 
dark  coat  over  his  overalls.  An  old  engineer  s  cap  is 
on  his  head. 

UNCLE  BENNY 

(Speaking  in  a  high,  nervous  voice) 
This  here's  mighty  good  liquor,  ain't  it  so,  Jake? 

JAKE 

(Pours  himself  another  glass) 
Uh-huh.     (Gruffly.)     It's  your  play,  Ed. 

UNCLE  BENNY 

I  reckon  you  might's  well  pour  me  some  more,  too, 
while  you're  'bout  it. 

(JAKE  pours  while  UNCLE  BENNY  holds  his 
cup.  Suddenly  a  loud  crash  of  thunder  is 
heard.  UNCLE  BENNY  starts  up  and  jerks  his 
hand  away,  nearly  spilling  the  contents  of  the 


JAKE 

(Grabs  the  jug  and  sets  it  down  with  a  bang) 
Drat  your  hide,  ol'  man  !    Do  you  want  to  waste  all 
this  good  whiskey?     What's  the  matter  with  you? 
Hey? 


WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE  5 

UNCLE  BENNY 
Thar  now,  Jake,  I  didn't  mean  no  harm. 

JAKE 
I  reckon  you  nigh  about  wasted  all  this  here  liquor! 

ED 

(Drawling ',  testily) 
Well,  'tain't  none  of  your  liquor,  is  it? 

JAKE 

(Turning  on  him) 

An'  what're  you  jumpin'  in  about?  You're  both 
'bout  to  jump  out'n  your  skins!  What  you  feared  of? 
'Tain't  nothin'  but  thunderin'  a  mite. 

UNCLE  BENNY 

But  it's  an  awful  night,  Jake.  It's  witch  weather — 
thunder  an'  lightnin'  on  a  cold  night  like  this  here — 
jest  the  night  for  witches  to  be  ridin'  an'  sperits  to  be 
walkin'  an'  I  can't  leave  off  from  feelin'  that  bad  luck's 
a-comin'  to  us  here.  (A  very  loud  thunder  clap  is 
heard  as  the  storm  grows  more  fierce.)  Oh,  lordy! 
lordy! 

ED 

Hit's  one  powerful  queer  storm,  sure,  but  brace  up, 
Pop,  'n  have  another  drink. 

( The  mugs  are  filled  again) 

UNCLE  BENNY 

Mighty  strange  things  has  happened  on  a  night  like 
this  here,  an'  right  nigh  the  Roanoke  River  here,  too. 


6  WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE 

I  mind  as  how  'twas  jest  sech  a  storm  as  this  when  a 
oF  witch  rid  my  ol'  woman  to  death.  Yes,  suh,  when 
she  woke  up  in  the  mornin'  they  was  dirt  in  between 
her  fingers,  an*  her  hair  was  all  tangled  up  whar  the 
witch  had  done  made  stirrups  of  it  for  to  ride  her 
through  the  briars.  She  was  nigh  about  wore  out,  an' 
all  she  could  do  was  to  stare  an'  gape  an*  mumble 
'bout  goin'  through  the  key-hole.  .  .  . 

JAKE 
(Scornfully) 

Aw,  shucks!  Your  ol'  woman  drunk  herself  to 
death  an'  I  reckon  it  didn't  take  much  ridin'  to  finish 
her,  neither.  If  you'd  been  drivin'  a  railroad  engine 
nigh  about  all  over  Carolina  an'  into  Virginia  like  I 
have,  you'd  'a  seen  so  many  sights  that  it'd  take  more'n 
any  ol'  hag  to  give  you  the  shakes.  Any  ol'  back- 
country  witch  like  Phoebe  Ward  can't  scare  me  off 
from  a  good  dram  like  this  here,  let  me  tell  you  all 
that! 

ED 

They  do  say  ol'  Phoebe  herself  is  prowlin'  round  in 
this  neighborhood,  her'n  that  durned  ol'  toad  she  carries 
round.  She  slept  'cross  the  river  last  night  an'  Jeff 
Bailey  seen  her  cuttin'  through  the  low-grounds  'bout 
dawn. 

JAKE 

Wai,  I'd  jest  like  to  see  ol'  witch  Phoebe  one  more 
time  an'  I'd  finish  for  her.  'Clare  to  goodness  the  last 
time  she  come  roun'  to  my  house  I  fixed  her  good  an' 
purty.  (Laughing  loudly.)  I  chucked  the  fire  right 


WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE  7 

full  of  red  pepper  pods  an'  she  nigh  about  sneezed  her 
head  off.  It  didn't  take  ol'  Phoebe  long  to  pick  up 
that  toad  of  hers  an'  clear  out  of  there,  damned  if  it 
did!  I  reckon  she  won't  come  soon  again  to  stay 
with  me! 

UNCLE  BENNY 

(Fearfully.    Rolling  thunder  is  heard) 
They  do  say  as  how  she  was  married  to  the  Devil 
hisself  once.     I've  heared  'em  say  he's  comin'  hisself 
an'  carry  her  off  one  of  these  days  when  her  time's 
come. 

JAKE 

I  reckon  he'll  get  us  all  when  our  times  comes,  for 
all  that.  (Laughing  coarsely.)  Aw,  brace  up,  Benny! 
I'd  like  to  get  my  hands  on  that  ol'  toad. 

(UNCLE  BENNY  looks  around  fearfully\  as 
though  dreading  her  appearance.  He  gets  up 
and  shuffles  slowly  to  the  fireplace^  speaking  as 
he  goes.) 

UNCLE  BENNY 

I've  heared  tell  it  was  her  toad  that's  her  sperit. 
The  varmint  leads  her  to  a  place  an'  then  sets  on  the 
hearth  stones  'twell  it's  time  for  her  to  move.  She 
won't  stir  from  that  place  'twell  her  ol'  Gibbie  com 
mences  to  hop  off  first. 

JAKE 

She  didn't  wait  for  her  toad  to  hop  last  time  she 
visited  me,  let  me  tell  you-all  that! 


8  WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE 

UNCLE  BENNY 

You'd  best  to  mind  how  you  rile  oP  Phoebe,  Jake. 
They  do  say  as  him  what  angers  her  will  be  witched. 
They  say  her  spell'll  pass  on  him,  an'  Gibbie'll  be  his 
sperit.  He'll  have  to  move  when  that  toad  commences 
to  hop  jest  the  same  as  ol'  Phoebe. 

JAKE 

Aw,  I'd  like  to  see  any  oP  toad-frog  make  me  move 
on.  A  good  jug  of  liquor's  the  only  thing'd  put  a  spell 
on  me ! 

ED 
(Rises  and  speaks  to  UNCLE  BENNY  who  is  warming 

his  hands  at  the  fire) 
Let's  have  another  dram,  Pop. 

(As  they  stoop  over  the  big  jug  in  the  corner 
to  the  right,  a  terrific  thunder  crash  is  heard. 
They  drop  the  jug  with  a  bang  and  JAKE 
strides  over  to  them  in  a  rage. 

The  witch  has  entered  unseen,  having  slipped 
through  the  curtain  over  the  door.  PHOEBE 
WARD  is  very  old,  and  bent,  and  wrinkled. 
Her  dress  is  wrapped  around  her  in  rags  and 
on  her  head  she  wears  an  old  bonnet  which  does 
not  hide  her  wizened  face.  There  are  two 
pockets  in  her  skirt.  She  stands  rubbing  her 
hands,  pinched  and  blue  with  the  cold.) 

JAKE 

(With  his  back  to  the  door.    He  has  not  seen  PHOEBE) 
Damn  you,  give  me  that  jug,  you  two  ol'  fools!  Are 


WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE  9 

you  goin'  to  waste  all  the  liquor  yet?  (The  others  art 
bending  over  the  jug,  paralyzed  by  the  sight  of  PHOEBE, 
who  advances  slowly  into  the  room.)  What're  you 
starin'  at?  (He  ivheels  around,  sees  PHOEBE,  and 
starts  back  in  amazement.}  The  witch! 

(There  is  a  dead  silence  while  PHOEBE  shivers 

toward  the  fire.) 

ED 

(Hoarsely) 
Good  Lord!     How'd  she  get  in? 

UNCLE  BENNY 
(Cowering  in  fear) 
Sure's  you're  born   she's   done   come   through   the 

latch-hole ! 

JAKE 

(Hesitating) 
What  you  doin'  here? 

PHOEBE 

(She  ignores  JAKE  and  comes  down  centre.  ED 
and  UNCLE  BENNY  cross  to  the  left  as  she  ad 
vances,  and  retreat  behind  the  table  in  fear. 
She  speaks  to  an  object  concealed  in  her 
pocket.) 

Sh,  now,  Gibbie,  quit  your  hoppin'.  (She  takes  the 
toad  out  of  her  pocket,  shuffles  slowly  to  the  right  and 
puts  the  toad  on  the  end  of  the  bench.)  Sh,  now,  this 
here's  whar  you'll  leave  me  rest  a  bit  now,  ain't  it? 
Thar  now,  toad-frog.  (She  crosses  to  the  right  of 
the  table.)  Uncle  Benny,  I'se  powerful  tired.  I'se 


io  WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE 

done  come  nigh  onto  ten  mile  from  the  river.     Leave 
me  rest  a  spell,  me'n  Gibbie? 

UNCLE  BENNY 
Sure,  now  .  .  . 

JAKE 

(Takes  a  step  forward,  menacingly) 
Get  out  of  here,  you  damned  witch ! 

(Eo  and  UNCLE  BENNY  regard  his  boldness 
with  alarm.) 

PHOEBE 

(Slowly  turns  to  JAKE,  watching  the  effect  of 
her  words,  which  make  even  JAKE  draw  back.) 
Tain't  no  good  luck  it'll  bring  to  you,  Jake,  if  you 
drives  me  out  again  into  the  storm.  My  spell'll  pass 
on  him  'at  harms  me,  an'  the  sperits'll  be  drivin'  him 
like  they  drive  ol'  Phoebe.  For  it's  my  oP  man,  the 
Devil,  you'll  be  reckonin'  with  this  time.  It's  the 
demons  what're  ridin'  in  the  storm.  Them  an*  Gibbie, 
they'll  be  drivin', — ain't  it  so,  Gibbie?  Drivin', 
drivin',  an'  never  restin'  'twell  Gibbie  rests!  Won't 
you  leave  me  warm  myself  a  bit,  poor  ol'  Phoebe 
what  the  sperits  has  been  drivin'  ? 

ED 
Don't  rile  her,  Jake,  don't  rile  her. 

JAKE 

(Grudgingly,  as  he  goes  to  the  back  of  the  room) 
Wai,  set  down,  Phoebe,  an'  warm  yourself — (Turns 


WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE  n 

on  her) — but  you  got  to  ride  yourself  off  presently,  you 
hear  me? 

(He  comes  down  toward  the  table.  PHOEBE 
sits  down  on  the  bench,  looking  very  helpless 
and  old.) 

PHOEBE 

'Tain't  as  if  I'll  ever  warm  myself  again,  Jake. 
'Tain't  as  if  I'll  ever  set  again  an'  watch  the  flames 
a-snappin'  an*  the  sap  a-sizzlin'  in  the  hickory  logs! 
When  my  Gibbie  starts  to  hoppin'  off  from  me  this 
time,  poor  ol'  Phoebe's  'bliged  to  go.  She'll  be  gone 
for  good,  Jake,  an'  this  here's  the  last  time  you'll  lay 
your  eyes  on  this  poor  ol'  woman,  Jake,  this  here's 
the  last  time  .  .  .  this  here's  the  last  time  .  .  . 
(Mumbling.) 

JAKE 

What're  you  talkin'  about,  Phoebe?  Are  you 
studyin'  for  to  ride  off  home  to  hell  with  your  Ol' 
Man,  the  Devil? 

UNCLE  BENNY 

(Hoarsely) 

She's  goin'  to  ride  us  all  to  death,  Jake.  Don't  make 
her  witch  us.  Leave  her  be ! 

PHOEBE 

(A  loud  crash  and  roll  of  thunder  is  heard  as 
the   storm    increases.     The    shutter   and   door 
rattle  loudly  in  the  wind.  PHOEBE  looks  around 
wildly.) 
I  done  hyeard  the  Black  Uns  callin'  in  the  thunder. 


12  WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE 

(She  rises  and  goes  to  the  window.)  The  Devil's 
ridin'  on  the  fiery  blaze  o'  lightnin'  an'  the  Black  Uns 
are  a-screechin'  in  the  wind.  (Frenzied.)  Oh, 
they're  straddlin'  on  the  storm  clouds  an'  they're  leanin' 
down  an'  stretchin'  out  an'  callin'  for  ol'  Phoebe. 
Don't  you  hear  'em,  Jake,  don't  you  hear  them  voices 
shriekin'?  (The  wind  blows  loudly.)  Don't  you 
hear  them  demon  claws  a-scratchin'  at  the  door? 
They're  callin'  me,  ain't  they,  Gibbie?  An'  when  my 
time's  done  up,  I'll  go  ridin'  through  the  storm  clouds 
an'  this  here's  the  last  time  you'll  be  seein'  me  on  this 
earth.  This  here's  the  last  time,  ain't  it,  Gibbie? 
(She  mumbles  to  herself.) 

ED 

Aw,  what's  she  mumblin'  'bout? 

(The  candles  flare  in  the  draft.) 

UNCLE  BENNY 

Look !  Look,  Jake,  we've  got  three  candles  a-burnin' 
an'  it's  a  sure  sign  of  death  in  this  place.  (Quavering.) 
Don't  let  her  curse  us  all  by  dyin'  in  this  place ! 

(He  goes  to  JAKE  and  seizes  him  appealingly.) 

JAKE 
Avr,  I  ain't  no  witch  doctor ! 

PHOEBE 

Be  you  feared  I'll  leave  this  here  ol'  corpse  behind 
me  when  I  go  ?  Oh,  the  Black  Uns'll  be  callin'  when 
my  time's  done  over  here  an1  the  Devil  hisself'll  take 
me  to  be  ridin'  by  his  side.  I'll  be  ridin'  on  the  storm 


WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE  13 

clouds  as  they  thunders  through  the  sky!  I'll  be  ridin' 
off  in  lightnin'  an'  you  won't  see  no  trace  o'  Phoebe 
left  behin'.  .  .  .  Jest  a  little  while  .  .  .  jest  a  little 
while.  .  .  . 

ED 

(Less  frightened) 

Aw,  stay  an*  warm  yourself,  Phoebe,  an*  don't  mind 
Jake.  He's  sort  of  queer  hisself,  I  reckon. 

(  They  watch  as  PHOEBE  pulls  the  bench  nearer 
to  the  fire  and  settles  herself,  crouched  over  the 
warmth.  They  sit  down  as  far  away  from  her 
as  possible  but  ED  and  UNCLE  BENNY  are  still 
uneasy.  Thunder  is  heard.) 

PHOEBE 

Gibbie,  you  been  a-wrigglin'  'round  an'  hoppin'. 
Don't  be  signin'  me  to  go  right  yet.  Jest  leave  me  set 
a  spell  an'  get  a  rest  an'  warmin'.  Set  still,  Gibbie, 
set  still,  set  still.  .  .  . 

UNCLE  BENNY 

(Staring  fascinated  at  the  toad) 
I  don't  like  these  here  goin's-on,  I  don't.     I  don't 
like  that  varmint  of  hers! 

ED 

I  sure  wish  that  ol'  toad  would  hop  off  from  here 
an'  sign  the  hag  she's  got  to  move  on.  I  hope  to  God 
this  here  is  the  last  time  for  ol'  Phoebe ! 


14  WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE 

PHOEBE 

(Lies  down  on  the  bench) 
Set  still,  Gibbie,  set  still. 

UNCLE  BENNY 

(Quavering) 

I — I  don't  like  to  stay  in  this  place,  Jake.  'Tain't 
no  good  luck  comin'  from  three  lights  in  a  room  an* 
I'm  feared  of  that  varmint.  It's  a  demon,  sure.  One 
of  us'll  be  witched  if  we  stays !  Let's  us  go ! 

JAKE 
(Shaking  off  any  fears  and  speaking  with  studied  gruff - 

ness.     Rolling  thunder  is  heard.) 
An*  let  the  screechin'  devils  get  you  from  the  clouds  I 

ED 

That  ol'  toad  makes  my  flesh  crawl.  Somethin's 
goin'  to  happen! 

JAKE 

Aw,  come  on,  boys.  I  ain't  goin'  to  let  this  here 
hag  an'  her  dirty  ol'  toad  spoil  my  good  liquor.  I'm 
goin'  to  have  a  drink.  (He  fills  the  jug  and  pours 
more  whiskey  in  the  mugs.  As  he  goes  to  the  corner 
to  the  big  jug  he  looks  defiantly  at  PHOEBE.)  She's 
done  gone  to  sleep  as  peaceful  as  you  please.  (He  sits 
down  to  drink  and  the  others  recover  a  little.)  I  ain't 
goin'  to  let  ol'  Phoebe  witch  me.  I  ain't  feared  of  her. 

ED 

(Looking  intently  at  JAKE) 
They  do  say  as  how  witches  cain't  harm  them  as  is 


WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE  15 

like  themselves.     (Insinuating.)     They  do  say  they's 
men  witches,  too. 

JAKE 

(Begins  to  show  drunken  bravado.     He  speaks  sar 
castically.) 

Well,  now,  mebbe  I  am  a  witch.  I  ain't  never 
thought  about  it  before.  I  never  did  know  jest  how  to 
call  myself,  but  mebbe  that's  jest  what  I  am,  a  witch. 
(Laughing,  with  a  swagger  at  UNCLE  BENNY.)  You'd 
better  look  out  for  me,  Benny ! 

UNCLE  BENNY 

Aw,  now,  Jake,  I  ain't  never  done  nothin*  agin*  you, 
Jake.  Now  you  know  I  ain't,  Jake. 

ED 

(Half  maliciously) 

They  do  say  there's  somethin'  queer  when  a  man 
ain't  a-feared  of  a  witch  an'  her  demon. 

JAKE 

Naw,  I  ain't  feared  of  her.     (He  takes  another  drink. 
All  show  the  effects  of  the  liquor.)     An'  I'll  tell  you- 
all  what  I'll  do.     I'll  go  right  up  to  the  old  hag  an' 
snatch  that  cap  right  ofFn  her  head,  I  will ! 
(He  rises.) 

ED 

They  do  say  she  keeps  a  heap  of  money  in  that  ol* 
bonnet  o*  hers. 

UNCLE  BENNY 

(He  rises) 
Don't  tech  her,  Jake.     Don't  rile  her.     Leave  her 


16  WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE 

be.     (As  JAKE  advances  to  the  bench  where  PHOEBE 
lies.)     Aw,  Jake! 

JAKE 

I'll  see  if  this  here  ol'  bundle  is  full  o'  demon  witch- 
spells  or  jest  good  money. 

(He  puts  out  his  hand  toward  the  cap.) 

UNCLE  BENNY 

(Jumps  up,  trembling  with  horror,  as  a  crash  of  thun 
der  is  heard  outside.) 

Don't,  Jake!  Look  at  that  witch!  Look  thar! 
That  ain't  nothin'  but  her  skin  layin'  thar.  See  how 
shrivelled  'tis.  Oh,  lordy,  Jake.  She's  done  already 
slipped  out'n  her  hide  an'  she's  ridin'  through  the  sky. 
She  left  her  skin  behind !  (With  despair.)  Oh,  lordy, 
lordy, 

JAKE 

Aw,  drat  you,  Benny.  Quit  your  shriekin*.  You'll 
jump  out'n  your  own  skin  next.  This  here's  Phoebe 
Ward  an'  all  of  her,  too, —  (With  a  swagger} — an' 
I'll  show  you!  (Before  UNCLE  BENNY  can  stop  him 
he  reaches  out  and  lays  a  finger  on  PHOEBE'S  hand. 
He  draws  back,  awestruck.)  Wai,  I'll  be  damned! 
(Touches  her  again.)  My  God,  Benny,  if  she  ain't 
dead!  Get  a  lookin'  glass,  Ed.  (ED  brings  a  cracked 
glass  from  the  mantel  shelf.  JAKE  holds  it  before 
PHOEBE'S  mouth.)  Yes,  sir,  sure's  you're  born,  Phoebe 
Ward's  done  blew  out.  She's  had  her  last  ride  for 
sure. 


WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE  17 

UNCLE  BENNY 
(Wildly  entreating) 

Cover  her  up,  Jake.  Cover  her  up!  I  don't  want 
to  see  her  no  more.  Them  three  lights  was  a  sign. 
Oh,  lordy,  lordy! 

JAKE 
(Goes  to  the  door  and  pulls  down  the  old  sheet t  throws 

it  over  PHOEBE) 

Thar,  now,  that'll  do.  (He  goes  to  the  table  and 
drains  his  glass.)  Here,  brace  up,  all,  an'  have  a 
drink. 

(They  drink  in  silence.) 

ED 

Wai,  she's  gone. 

JAKE 

Say,   you-all,   oP   Phoebe's  dead   an'   I   reckon   we 

might's  well  drink  her  wake  right  now.     Fill  up,  all. 

(£D  pours  the  whiskey  while  JAKE  takes  the 

candles  from  the  table  and  places  two  at  the 

head  and  one  at  the  feet  of  the  "corpse" 

ED 

(Gulping) 
Here's  you,  Jake ! 
(He  drinks.) 

JAKE 
Here's  to  ol'  Phoebe. 

(He  drinks,  laughing  coarsely.) 


i8  WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE 

UNCLE  BENNY 
Oh,  Lord,  help  us. 
(He  drinks.) 

ED 

This  place's  gettin'  cold — needs  some  more  wood  on 
the  fire. 

(The  fire  has  burned  low  and  the  light  is  dim.) 

JAKE 

Wai,  you  put  it  on. 

ED 

(Solemnly) 

I  wouldn't  go  nigh  that  there  witch's  corpse,  not  if 
her  ol'  cap  was  plumb  full  of  gold! 

JAKE 

Aw,  I'd  shake  hands  with  her  ol'  man,  the  Devil 
hisself,  to-night. 

(JAKE  gets  up  and  goes  around  the  bench  to  the 
woodpile,  with  his  back  to  the  "corpse." 
PHOEBE  sits  up,  very  slowly,  and  feebly  pushes 
aside  the  shroud.  The  thunder  is  heard  above 
the  storm  outside.  The  shutter  bangs  and  the 
candles  are  puffed  out.  JAKE  drops  his  load 
of  wood  into  the  fire  and  turns  toward  the 
bench  as  he  hears  the  sound  behind  him.  He 
leans  against  the  side  of  the  fireplace.  All 
stand  spellbound,  aazing  at  the  witch.) 


&  c 


.HP  -o 


OS 

O, 


CQ 


WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE  19 

PHOEBE 

Uncle  Benny,  gimme  a  drap  o'  liquor.  It's  mighty 
cold  over  here.  (Shivering,  she  gets  up  and  shuffles 
toward  the  table.  ED  and  UNCLE  BENNY  retreat  in 
horror.)  I'm  done  frizzed  clean  through  .  .  .  jest 
one  little  drap  .  .  .  before  I  go!  This  here's  my  last 
time!  (She  picks  up  a  cup  and  gulps  hurriedly  as  if 
fearful  that  she  will  be  forced  to  go  before  it  is  fin 
ished.)  This  here's  my  last  time! 

JAKE 

(Infuriated) 

This  here's  your  last  time,  is  it  ?  Warn't  you  dead  ? 
Ain't  we  done  drunk  your  wake?  Ain't  it  time  to 
bury  you  now  ?  You  git  yourself  out'n  that  thar  door, 
Phoebe  Ward!  You're  dead  for  sure  an'  I'm  going  to 
bury  you  now. 

(The  storm  outside  grows  fiercer,  with  the 
heavy  sound  of  thunder.  Flashes  of  lightning 
are  seen  through  the  window  as  the  shutter 
swings  in  the  ivind.) 

PHOEBE 

(Menacingly  to  JAKE) 

You'd  best  to  leave  me  be,  Jake!  'Tain't  in  your 
hands  to  dig  a  grave  whar  Phoebe'll  lie.  'Twon't  be 
no  good  that'll  follow  him  as  sees  me  ride  the  clouds 
to-night ! 

JAKE 

(Frenzied,  he  dashes  her  aside  and  strides  to  the  door) 
You  won't  ride  the  clouds  no  more'n  I  will,  you 


20  WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE 

damned  witch!  You're  dead  an*  it's  time  you're 
buried!  (He  stumbles  through  the  door.)  Come  on 
out,  or  I'll  come  back  an'  drag  you  out  when  I  get  your 
grave  dug. 

(Vivid  lightning  is  seen  through  the  door  as 
JAKE  strides  out.  Loud  crashes  of  thunder 
sound  near  by.) 

PHOEBE 

(Exalted,  listening  as  she  moves  to  the  door) 
Oh,  I  hear  the  Black  Uns  thunderin'  down  the  path 
ways  of  the  sky!  I  hear  'em  whirlin'  through  the 
clouds  an'  dartin'  flames  of  fire!  It's  all  of  hell  is 
risin'  up  to  carry  me  away!  (Strong  wind  and  rolling 
thunder  are  heard.)  Oh,  they're  screamin'  out  for 
Phoebe  an'  they're  wild  to  sweep  her  through  the  storm 
with  the  Devil  at  her  side!  'Tis  the  Devil  hisself  is 
waitin'  an'  he's  scorchin'  up  the  blackness  with  the 
lightnin's  of  his  eyes!  (As  though  in  answer  to  a  call 
from  without.)  I'm  comin',  I'm  comin'!  I'll  be 
ridin'!  I'llberidin'! 

(She  stands  in  the  open  door,  facing  the  room, 
and  a  terrific  flash  of  lightning  throws  her 
figure  into  dark  silhouette.  Then  she  retreats 
backward  and  the  door  bangs  behind  her. 
UNCLE  BENNY  and  ED  are  left  crouching  by 
the  table.) 

UNCLE  BENNY 
She's  gone.    She'll  get  Jake. 


WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE  21 

ED 

Oh,  Lord,  where's  her  toad  ?  Where's  her  sperit  ? 
(There  is  a  wild  crack  and  crash  of  thunder, 
the  door  bangs  open  and  there  is  another  blind 
ing  flash  of  lightning.  JAKE  stumbles  through 
the  door  in  terrible  fright.  His  hands  are  over 
his  eyes,  as  if  he  is  blinded.  He  gropes,  stum 
bling,  to  the  table  and  falls  into  a  seat.) 

JAKE 
(Stunned) 
I  seen  'im !    I  seen  'im ! 

UNCLE  BENNY 
My  Lord! 

ED 
What—    What  was  it,  Jake? 

JAKE 
(Wildly) 

I'm  witched!  Oh,  I  seen  all  the  Black  Uns  in  Hell, 
I  seen  the  Devil  hisself!  I  seen  'im,  I  seen  the  Ol' 
Man !  The  heavens  done  opened  like  a  blazin',  roarin' 
furnace  an'  the  storm  clouds  wrapped  ol'  Phoebe  'round 
an'  snatched  her  up  in  fire!  An'  all  the  clawin' 
demons  out'n  Hell  rid  roarin'  past  my  ears.  Oh, 
they've  blinded  me  with  balls  of  fire  an'  knocked  me  to 
the  ground.  An'  the  Devil  hisself  done  carried  off  ol' 
Phoebe  for  to  ride  among  the  witches.  I  seen  'im,  I 
done  seen  'im ! 


22  WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE 

ED 
My  God,  he  seen  the  Devil!     He's  witched  sure. 

UNCLE  BENNY 

(Moves   back   trembling  and  steps  against  the   toad, 
which  has  moved  near  to  the  table.    He  jumps 
in  fright  and  stares  at  it  in  horror. 
Oh,  good  Lord,  the  spell's  here  I 

ED 

What  do  you  see  ? 

UNCLE  BENNY 
The  toad! 

JAKE 

My  God!    She  left  her  toad ! 

ED 
It's  done  moved!    It's  moved  from  where  she  put  it. 

UNCLE  BENNY 

Her  spell's  passed  on  Jake.  Her  demon's  witched 
him!  Oh,  lordy! 

JAKE 

It's  moved,  it's  moved!  (Struggling  as  with  a 
spell.)  Oh,  I  got  to  go  too.  The  witch's  toad's  done 
got  me  an'  I  got  to  go.  (Retreating  from  the  toad  with 
his  hands  to  his  eyes  as  before.)  I'm  goin',  Gibbie,  I'm 
goin',  I'm  goin'.  .  .  . 


WHEN  WITCHES  RIDE  23 

(He  turns  at  the  door  and  stumbles  out  into  the 
night.  The  door  remains  open  on  blackness  and 
a  roaring  wind  blows  through  the  room,  leav 
ing  it  nearly  in  darkness  as  ED  and  UNCLE 
BENNY  stare  at  the  toad  and  retreat  in  horror.) 

ED 
It  done  got  him ! 

UNCLE  BENNY 

The  Devil  took  him!     Oh,   Lord,  help  us.     Oh, 
lordy,  lordy! 

(Eo  and  UNCLE  BENNY  fall  on  their  knees  and 
crouch  in  abject  terror.  The  sound  of  thunder 
is  heard  rolling  in  the  distance.) 


CURTAIN 


PEGGY1 

A  Tragedy  of  the  Tenant  Farmer 

BY 
HAROLD  WILLIAMSON 


1  Copyright,  1922,  by  The  Carolina  Playmakers,  Inc.  All  rights 
reserved.  Permission  to  produce  this  play  may  be  secured  by  address 
ing  Frederick  H.  Koch,  Director,  The  Carolina  Playmakers,  Inc., 
Chapel  Hill,  North  Carolina. 


PEGGY 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

As  originally  produced  at  The  Play-House,  Chapel 
Hill,  North  Carolina,  May  30  and  31,  1919. 

WILL  WARREN,  a  tenant  farmer,  George  McF.  McKie 
MAG  WARREN,  his  wife,  Elizabeth  Taylor 

PEGGY,  their  daughter,  aged  18,      Virginia  McFadyen 
HERMAN,  their  son,  aged  6,  Nat  Henry 

JED,  a  farm  hand,  in  love  with  Peggy, 

Harold  Williamson 

JOHN  McDoNALD,  the  landowner,       George  Denny 
WESLEY  McDoNALD,  his  son,  a  University  student 

George  Crawford 

SCENE:  A  tenant  farm  in  North  Carolina.    The  bare 

living-room  of  a  two-room  cabin. 
TIME:   The  present.    An  April  evening,  about  seven 

o'clock. 


SCENE 

r-rmHE  scene  is  laid  in  one  of  the  two  rooms  of  a 
i  tenant  shack.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  is 
•*•  a  square  eating-table  with  an  oil-cloth  cover. 
On  each  side  of  the  table  is  a  straw-bottom  chair.  A 
small,  worn  cook-stove  is  in  the  left  corner  and 
beside  it  a  wood-box.  At  the  right  of  the  store  is  a 
rectangular  table  on  which  are  a  dishpan  and  other 
cooking  utensils.  Against  the  back  wall  is  a  cup 
board  which  holds  the  meagre  supply  of  tableware. 
On  top  of  it  are  several  paper  sacks  and  pasteboard 
boxes  containing  cooking  materials.  A  door  in  the  right 
side  leads  from  the  eating-room  into  the  only  other 
room  of  the  shack,  used  as  a  sleeping-room.  A  door  at 
the  back  on  the  left  leads  outdoors.  Through  this 
doorway  can  be  seen  a  crude  string  lattice-work  partly 
covered  by  a  growing  vine,  and  a  shelf  supporting  a 
bucket  and  gourd.  A  small  window  is  at  the  right  in 
the  back  wall.  The  floor  and  walls  are  bare.  Every 
thing  has  a  fairly  neat  appearance  but  suggests  the 
struggle  against  a  degrading  poverty. 

As  the  curtain  rises  MAG  WARREN  is  busily  pre 
paring  supper,  singing  as  she  works.  HERMAN  is  sit 
ting  on  the  floor  tying  a  piece  of  rope  to  the  end  of  a 
broom  handle. 


30 


PEGGY 


MAG  WARREN  is  a  thin,  bent,  overworked  woman  of 
forty-two.  Her  face  reveals  the  strain  of  years  of 
drudgery.  Her  thin  hair  is  drawn  tightly  into  a  knot 
on  the  back  of  her  head.  She  wears  a  cheap  calico  dress 
and  a  faded  checkered  apron.  In  the  pocket  of  her 
apron  is  a  large  snuff  can.  A  protruding  snuff-brush 
claims  the  right  corner  of  her  mouth?- .  She  beats  up  a 

Mag's  Song 


&{-;.     1  . 

fEfigB  L^ 

A             rich 
Three       years 

-ICT  -4  a  1  

man           lay           on           his 
rolled         by          and          the 

-t  -i  —  —  u  n  L  f  —  «j  f 

vel  .  vet     couch,     He         ate     from      plates  _       of 
rich    man    died,      He         de  .  scend  -  ed      to    fiery 


gold;  

A 

poor 

girl 

stood 

on 

the 

hell,  

The 

poor 

girl 

lay 

ia 

the 

> 


mar.  ble    steps,  And    said,    "So  cold,    so       cold"_ 
an- gel's  arms,  And  sighed, UA1&  well,   alls     welL'L. 

1  The  habit  of  "dipping  snuff"  is  common  among  the  poor  whites 
m  all  sections  of  North  Carolina.  A  twig  is  chewed  into  shreds  at 
one  end  and  is  known  as  a  snuff-stick  or  "tooth-brush."  This  is  dipped 


PEGGY  31 

batter  of  cornbread,  pours  It  into  a  pan  on  the  stove, 
and  after  pouring  some  water  into  a  large  coffee-pot, 
she  begins  to  slice  some  "fatback"  * 

Herman  is  an  under-sized  boy  of  six  years  with  a 
vacant  expression  on  his  pinched  face.  He  wears  a 
faded  shirt,  and  a  lone  suspender  over  his  right  shoulder 
gives  scanty  support  for  his  patched  pants,  which  strike 
him  midway  between  the  knee  and  the  ankle.  He  is 
barefooted.  When  he  finishes  fixing  his  "horse"  he 
gets  up,  straddles  the  stick,  and  trots  over  all  the  unoc 
cupied  part  of  the  room. 

HERMAN 

Git  up,  Kit  ...  whoa  ...  ha.  (Whipping  the 
stick.)  What's  the  matter?  Cain't  you  plow 
straight  ? 

(In  his  trotting  he  runs  into  MAG  at  the  stove. 
She  turns  on  him  angrily.) 

MAG 

Git  out'n  my  way  an'  git  over  thar  in  the  corner. 
(Utterly  subdued,  HERMAN  goes  and  sits  in  the  corner 
while  MAG  goes  on  with  her  work.  Presently  she 
turns  to  him.)  Go  git  me  a  turn  o'  wood,  an'  don't 
you  take  all  day  about  it  neither. 

(HERMAN  goes  out.     MAG  continues  to  sing, 
moving  about  between  the  table,  stove,  and  cup- 

into  the  powdered  snuff  and  then  rubbed  over  the  gums  and  teeth. 
The  women  seem  to  get  much  satisfaction  from  this  practice. 

i  "Fatback"  is  fat  salt  pork  which,  together  with  cornbread,  forms 
the  main  part  of  the  diet  of  "hog  and  hominy"  eaten  by  poor  whites 
the  year  'round. 


32  PEGGY 

board  as  she  prepares  the  meal.  JED  SMITH 
enters.  He  is  a  tall,  lanky,  uncanny-looking 
fellow  of  twenty-four.  He  is  dressed  in  the 
shabby  shirt  and  faded  blue  overalls  of  an 
ordinary  poor  farm-labortr.  He  walks  in 
slowly  and  lazily  and  says  nothing.  As  he 
goes  to  the  table  MAG  looks  up  at  him  from  her 
work.) 

MAG 

I  thought  you  was  Will,  Jed.  (She  continues  her 
work.)  Seen  anything  o'  Pegg?  Hit's  a-gittin' 
mighty  high  time  she's  back  here. 

JED 
(Pulls  out  a  chair  from  the  table,  flops  down  in  it,  and 

begins  whittling  on  a  stick) 
That's  what  I  come  to  see  you  about,  Mag. 

MAG 

(Stopping  her  work  and  looking  around  at  JED) 
Ain't  nothin'  happened,  air  there,  Jed? 

JED 

Nothin'  to  git  skeered  about,  but  ol'  man  McDon 
ald's  boy  come  in  from  one  o'  them  'air  colleges  th' 
other  day  an'  I  jest  seen  Pegg  down  yonder  a-talkin' 
to  him  an'  a-lookin'  at  him  mighty  sweet-like.  'Tain't 
the  fust  time  neither. 


PEGGY  33 

MAG 

(Goes  up  nearer  to  JED) 
So  that's  what's  been  a-keepin'  her  ? 

JED 

Yeah,  an'  if  you  don't  watch  out,  Mag,  there's  a 
tale  goin'  to  git  out  an'  ol'  man  McDonald'll  drive  you 
off'n  the  place. 

MAG 

You're  right,  Jed.  Jest  wait  till  me  an'  her  pa  gits 
through  with  her.  We'll  put  a  stop  to  it. 

JED 

(Nervously) 
Now  don't  go  an'  tell  her  I  told  you,  Mag. 

MAG 

You  needn't  be  skeered.  I  been  a-thinkin'  as  much 
myself.  She's  been  powerful  uppity  lately,  but  I  didn't 
know  what  about.  Her  pa's  allus  said  that  perty  face 
o'  hern  would  be  the  ruinin'  of  her.  Don't  you  know 
Wes  McDonald  wouldn't  be  a-havin*  nothin*  to  do 
with  Pegg  'lessen  she  was  perty? 

JED 

Naw. 

MAG 

She's  clear  out'n  his  class  an'  ain't  got  sense  enough 
to  know  it.  (She  turns  the  corn  cake  in  the  pan.)  An' 
it's  a  perty  way  she's  a-doin'  you,  Jed. 


34  PEGGY 

JED 

(Drearily) 
Yeah,  I  reckon  she  ain't  likin*  me  no  more. 

(HERMAN  returns  with  the  wood  and  throws 
it  in  the  box.) 

MAG 
Ain't  she  said  she'd  marry  you  ? 

JED 

Aw,  she  did  onc't. 

MAG 

An*  you're  a  good  match  for  her,  too.  Will's  a-been 
a-sayin'  how  good  you  are  at  the  plow. 

JED 
I'd  shore  like  to  have  her,  Mag. 

MAG 

Well,  if  you  want  her  you  can  git  her,  Jed.  She's 
done  a  right  smart  o'  washin'  an'  a-cookin'  an*  a-hoein* 
in  her  day  an'  I  reckon  she'll  make  you  a  good  woman. 

JED 
I  ain't  a-worryin*  about  that. 

MAG 

(Looking  out  of  the  window) 
Yonder  she  comes  now.    Ain't  no  tellin'  what  fool 
notions  that  boy  has  been  a-puttin'  in  her  head,  but 
you  jest  wait  till  me  an'  her  pa  gits  through  with  her. 


PEGGY  35 

JED 

(Rising  nervously) 
Reckon  I'll  be  a-goin'  now,  Mag. 

MAG 

Ain't  you  goin*  to  wait  an'  see  Pegg?     'Pears  like 
you'd  be  a-pushin'  yourself. 

JED 
Naw,  I  .  .  .I'll  come  back  after  I  eat. 

MAG 

Well,  you  come  back.    Me  an'  her  pa'll  have  her  in 
a  notion  then. 

HERMAN 

(Stops  JED  as  he  is  going  out) 
Gimme  some  terbaccer,  Jed. 

JED 

(Feels  in  his  pockets) 
I  ain't  got  none,  Herman. 
(He  goes  out.) 

MAG 

What'd  I  tell  you  about  axin'  folks  for  terbaccer? 
When  you  want  terbaccer  ax  your  pa  for  it. 

HERMAN 
He  won't  gimme  none. 

MAG 

Well,  it  don't  make  no  odds.    You  don't  do  nothin' 
but  waste  it  nohow. 


36  PEGGY 

(HERMAN  sits  down  on  the  floor  to  the  front 
and  begins  to  play  aimlessly. 

PEGGY  comes  in,  flushed  and  happy.  She  is  a 
pretty  girl  of  eighteen  years.  She  has  attractive 
features,  is  of  medium  height,  slim  and  lively. 
Her  hair  is  light  and  becomingly  disheveled. 
Her  dress  is  extremely  simple  but  shows  signs 
of  care.) 

PEGGY 
Supper  ready,  ma? 

MAG 

Cain't  you  see  it  ain't?     Why  ain't  you  been  here 
long  ago  a-helpin'  me  to  git  supper  ? 

PEGGY 

(Putting  the  milk  bucket  she  has  brought  in 
with  her  on  the  table,  she  goes  over  to  the  left 
to  hang  up  her  bonnet.) 
I  couldn't  finish  milkin'  no  sooner. 

MAG 

You  needn't  tell  me  you  been  a-milkin'  all  this  time. 
Where  you  been  anyhow? 

PEGGY 
I  stopped  to  help  Lizzie  Taylor  hang  out  her  wash. 

MAG 
Been  anywheres  else? 


PEGGY  37 

PEGGY 


No'm. 


MAG 

Well,  git  busy  a-fixin'  that  table,  an'  tell  me  what 
fool  notions  Wes  McDonald's  been  a-puttin'  into  your 
head. 

PEGGY 

(She  tries  to  look  surprised) 
I  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  Wes  McDonald,  ma. 

MAG 

Don't  you  lie  to  your  ma  like  that,  Pegg.  You  think 
I  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  it,  but  you  cain't  fool  your 
ma.  He's  been  a-settin'  up  to  you,  ain't  he  ? 

PEGGY 
No,  ma,  he  ain't  said  nothin'  to  me,  he  ... 

MAG 

Now  be  keerf  ul. 

PEGGY 

He  jest  spoke  to  me,  an'  I  jest  axed  him  how  he 
liked  to  go  off  to  school  an'  he  said  he  liked  it  an'  he 
axed  me  why  I  wasn't  goin'  to  school  an'  I  told  him 
I  had  to  work. 

MAG 
Didn't  he  say  nothin'  'bout  your  bein'  perty? 


38  PEGGY 

PEGGY 

(Proudly) 

Yes,  he  said  I  was  perty.  Said  if  I  had  book-learnin' 
an*  lived  uptown  I'd  be  the  pick  o'  the  whole  bunch. 

MAG 

That's  what  I  was  a-thinkin'  he'd  be  a-puttin'  into 
your  head.  You  keep  out'n  Wes  McDonald's  way. 
He  ain't  a-keerin'  nothin'  for  you  and  besides  he'll  git 
you  into  trouble.  Wait  till  your  pa  hears  o'  this. 

(There  is  a  silence  while  MAG  goes  on  with 
her  work.) 

PEGGY 

(Looking  out  of  the  window,  wistfully) 
I  reckon  it'd  be  nice  to  go  to  school. 

MAG 

Mebbe  it  is.  If  you'd  a-been  rich,  schoolin'  might 
a-done  you  some  good,  but  you  ain't  rich  an'  schoolin's 
only  for  them  as  is  rich.  Me  an'  your  pa  never  had  no 
schoolin',  and  I  reckon  you  can  git  along  'thout  any 
yourself.  (She  goes  to  the  door  and  looks  off  anxiously 
across  the  fields.)  Hit's  high  time  your  pa  was  a-gittin' 
home. 

HERMAN 

I'd  like  to  see  pa  myself.    Want  some  terbaccer. 

MAG 

(Comes  to  the  front.    Solemnly) 
I  been  mighty  skeered  'bout  your  pa  ever  since  the 
doctor  told  him  he  had  that  'air  misery  round  his  heart. 


PEGGY  39 

PEGGY 
Did  he  say  'twas  dangerous? 

MAG 

(Going  back  to  the  stove) 

Well,  he  said  your  pa  was  liable  to  keel  over  most 
any  time  if  he  ain't  mighty  keerful.  Ol'  man  McDon 
ald's  got  him  down  yonder  in  that  'air  new  ground 
a-bustin'  roots  an'  it  ain't  a-doin*  your  pa  no  good 
neither. 

PEGGY 

I  jest  seen  pa  an'  Mr.  McDonald  a-talkin'  together 
an1  both  of  'em  was  mighty  mad  about  somethin'. 

MAG 

I  reckon  your  pa  struck  him  for  a  raise,  an'  he  ought 
to  have  it.  A  dollar  an'  a  quarter  a  day  ain't  enough, 
workin'  like  your  pa  does,  but  oP  man  McDonald'd 
see  your  pa  clear  to  hell  afore  he'd  pay  him  a  cent 
more.  (She  goes  to  the  door,  takes  the  snuff-brush 
from  her  mouth  and  spits  out  the  snuff.  She  puts  the 
snuff-brush  in  her  pocket,  takes  a  drink  of  water  from 
the  gourd  and  washes  her  mouth  out  with  it,  spitting 
out  the  water.  She  speaks  to  PEGGY  as  she  turns  back 
to  the  stove.)  There's  them  cabbages  your  pa  told  you 
to  hoe  an'  you  ain't  done  it,  have  you? 

PEGGY 
No,  ma,  I  ain't  had  time. 


40  PEGGY 

MAO 

You  had  a-plenty  o'  time  to  let  Wes  McDonald  put 
a  lot  o'  fool  notions  in  your  head.  You'll  have  a 
perty  time  a-tellin'  your  pa  you  ain't  had  time.  ( There 
is  a  pause.)  Jed  said  as  how  he  might  come  around 
after  he's  eat.  Hit's  a  perty  way  you  been  a-treatin' 
Jed  an'  he  ain't  a-likin'  it  neither. 

PEGGY 

I  don't  care  if  he  likes  it  or  not.  'Tain't  none  o' 
his  business. 

MAG 

Hit  ain't?  Ain't  you  done  told  him  you  was  a-goin' 
to  marry  him  ? 

PEGGY 
I  might  have  onc't,  but  I've  changed  my  mind. 

MAG 

(Angrily) 
What's  come  over  you  anyhow? 

PEGGY 

Nothin',  ma. 

MAG 

Well,  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  think  you're  a-goin' 
to  do?  'Tain't  every  man  a  woman  can  git,  an'  you 
ought  to  thank  the  Lord  Jed's  given  you  the  chanct. 

PEGGY 

I  ain't  a-wantin'  it.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  marry  Jed  an' 
have  to  work  like  a  dog  all  my  life — besides,  I  got  to 
love  the  man  I  marr?. 


PEGGY  41 

MAG 

(Scornfully) 

Love?  What's  love  got  to  do  with  your  bread  an' 
meat?  You  been  a-readin'  some  o'  them  magazines  as 
they  git  down  at  the  house.  I'd  like  to  know  what 
you  think  you're  goin'  to  do? 

PEGGY 
(Resolved) 
I'm  goin'  to  git  me  a  job  up  town  an'  be  somebody ! 

MAG 

There  ain't  nothin'  you  could  do  there.  You  was 
raised  on  a  farm,  an'  I  reckon  that's  jest  about  the 
place  for  you.  You  don't  think  you're  better'n  your 
ma,  do  you  ? 

PEGGY 

No,  ma,  but  I  could  git  me  a  job  in  the  Five  an' 
Ten  Cent  Store.  Mary  Cameron's  got  her  a  job  there, 
an'  she's  a-wearin'  fine  clothes  an'  got  a  lot  o'  fellows. 

MAG 

Yes,  an'  there's  a  lot  a-bein'  said  as  to  how  she  got 
them  clothes.  I  tell  you,  me  an'  your  pa  ain't  a-goin'  to 
have  nothin'  like  that. 

PEGGY 
But,  ma,  I 

MAG 

Shet  up.  You  behave  yourself  like  you  ought  to. 
before  Jed.  If  you  don't,  you  better. 


42  PEGGY 

PEGGY 

I'll  treat  him  all  right  but  I  ain't  a-goin*  to  marry 
him. 


MAG 
Me  an'  your  pa'll  say  if  you  will  or  not,  an* 

PEGGY 
The  bread's  a-burnin',  ma! 

MAG 

(Running  quickly  across  the  room  she  jerks  the  bread 
off  the  stove  and  dumps  it  into  a  pan  on  the  table) 
Good  Lord,  now  don't  that  beat  you?    An1  there 

ain't  no  more  meal.      (She  looks  out  of  the  door.) 

Yonder  comes  your  pa,  too.     Hurry  up  an*  git  that 

table  laid  while  I  git  a  bucket  o*  water. 

(She  takes  the  pail  and  hurries  off. 

WILL  WARREN  comes  in  heavily.  He  is  a 
slouchy,  hump-shouldered  man  of  fifty  years. 
His  hair  is  long  and  his  face  unshaven.  He 
wears  an  old,  dirty,  sweat-ridden  black  hat  with 
a  shaggy  brim;  a  faded  blue  denim  shirt;  brown 
corduroy  pants,  worn  slick,  attached  to  a  large 
pair  of  suspenders  by  nails;  and  brogan  shoes 
with  heavy  gray  socks  falling  over  the  top.  He 
drags  himself  in  and  stands  propped  against  the 
side  of  the  door.  His  face  is  white  and  he 
appears  entirely  exhausted.) 


PEGGY  43 

HERMAN 

(Going  up  to  WILL) 

Gimme  some  terbaccer,  pa.  (WiLL  pays  no  atten 
tion  to  him.)  Pa,  gimme  some  terbaccer. 

WILL 
( Giving  HERMAN  a  slap  on  the  face  that  sends  him  to 

the  floor) 
Git  to  hell  away  from  me. 

(He  comes  into  the  room  slowly  and  unsteadily^ 
pulls  off  his  hat  and  throws  it  into  the  corner, 
and  falls  into  a  chair  by  the  table,  breathing 
heavily  and  staring  blankly.  He  says  nothing.) 

PEGGY 

(She  notices  WILL'S  heavy  breathing  and  is  alarmed.) 
What's  the  matter,  pa,  ain't  you  feelin'  well? 

WILL 

(Struggling  for  breath) 
Gimme  .  .  .  some  coffee  .  "~.  .  quick! 

PEGGY 

(Quickly  pouring  a  cup  of  coffee  and  giving  it  to  him. 
He  gulps  it  down  and  appears  considerably  relieved) 
You  ain't  sick,  air  you,  pa? 

WILL 

Naw.  .  .  .  It's  another  one  o*  them  durned 
miseries  round  my  heart.  (He  gulps  the  coffee.)  I 
ain't  a-goin'  to  work  another  day  in  that  durned  new 


44  PEGGY 

ground.  I  told  McDonald  I  wouldn't  an'  damned  if 
I  do. 

MAG 

(Who   has   now   come   back,  and   has   overheard  his 

words) 

I  don't  blame  you  for  sayin'  so,  but  there  ain't  no  use 
in  flyin'  ofFn  the  handle  like  that. 

WILL 

Well,  I  said  it  an'  I'll  do  it.  These  here  money  men 
like  McDonald  think  as  how  they  can  work  a  poor 
man  like  me  to  death  an'  pay  me  nothin'  for  it  neither, 
but  durned  if  I  don't  show  him. 

MAG 

What'd  he  say  when  you  axed  him  for  a  raise? 

WILL 

Aw,  he  said  he  was  a-losin'  money  every  year.  He 
allus  says  that.  Says  he  ain't  a-raisin'  enough  to  pay 
for  the  growin'  of  it,  but  don't  you  reckon  I  know  how 
much  he's  a  raisin'  ?  He's  a-gittin'  thirty  cents  a  pound 
for  his  cotton  an'  two  dollars  a  bushel  for  his  corn,  an' 
then  he  says  he  ain't  a-makin'  nothin'.  He  cain't  lie 
to  me,  he's  a-gittin'  rich. 

MAG 

Course  he  is.  Ain't  he  jest  bought  another  one  o* 
them  automobiles  th'  other  day? 


PEGGY  45 

WILL 

Yeah,  an'  while  him  an'  that  no'count  boy  o*  his'n 
are  a-ridin'  around  in  it  I'm  down  yonder  in  that  'air 
new  ground  a-gittin'  a  dollar  an'  a  quarter  a  day  for 
killin'  myself  over  them  durned  roots.  Jest  afore 
quittin'  time  I  come  mighty  nigh  givin'  out. 

MAG 

(She  brings  the  cornbread  and  "jatback"  and  puts  It  on 
the  table.    PEGGY  busies  herself  at  the 

table  and  cupboard) 

You  better  take  keer  o'  yourself.  You  know  what 
the  doctor  told  you. 

WILL 

Yeah,  but  how  in  the  devil  can  I  help  it  like  things 
are  now?  I  told  him  what's  what  a  while  ago,  an' 
damned  if  I  don't  stick  to  it  too.  (He  looks  over  the 
table.)  What  you  got  for  supper?  (Seeing  the  burnt 
bread,  he  picks  it  up  and  hurls  it  to  the  floor.)  What 
kind  o'  durned  cookin'  do  you  call  this  you're  doin', 
anyway  ? 

MAG 

It  wouldn't  a-happened  if  Pegg  hadn't  been  a-pes- 


WILL 

(Angrily  to  PEGGY) 
Well,  what  you  been  a-doin'  ? 

PEGGY 
Nothin',  pa. 


46  PEGGY 

MAG 

In  the  fust  place,  you  told  her  to  hoe  them  cabbages. 

WILL 
Ain't  you  done  it? 

MAG 

No,  she  ain't  done  it,  but  she's  been  down  yonder 
a-lettin'  Wes  McDonald  put  a  lot  o'  fool  notions  into 
her  head  about  her  bein'  perty,  an'  now  she  says  she 
ain't  a-going  to  marry  Jed. 

WILL 

(Savagely  to  PEGGY) 
You  ain't,  air  you  ? 

PEGGY 

(Half  crying  but  defiant) 

No,  pa,  I  ain't.  I've  seen  you  an'  ma  a-workin*  from 
sun-up  to  sun-down  like  niggers  an*  jest  a-makin' 
enough  to  keep  us  out'n  the  poor  house,  an'  I  ain't 
a-going  to  live  no  sich  life  with  Jed.  He  couldn't  do 
no  better. 

WILL 
Well,  durn  your  hide  .   ,   . 

MAG 

An*  she  says  she'll  git  her  a  job  up-town  like  Mary 
Cameron's  got.  You  know  what's  a-bein'  said  about 
Mary!  (To  PEGGY.)  Don't  you  know  we  ain't 
a-goin*  to  have  nothin'  like  that? 

(She  shakes  her  finger  at  PEGGY.) 


PEGGY  47 

PEGGY 


But,  ma,  I  ... 


WILL 

Shet  up.  We've  raised  you  up  here  an*  it's  us  as'll 
say  what  you'll  do.  Jed  axed  you  to  marry  him  an' 
durn  it,  you'll  do  it,  too. 

PEGGY 
I  won't. 

WILL 

(Rising  from  the  chair) 

You  won't?  Don't  you  let  me  hear  you  say  that 
agin. 

PEGGY 
(Wildly) 
I  won't,  I  won't,  I  won't! 

WILL 

(In  uncontrolled  rage) 

Then,  damn  you,  you  can  git  right  out'n  this  house 
right  now  an'  ... 

MAO 

Hush,  Will,  hush. 

WILL 

(Breathing  heavily  and  struggling  in  his  speech) 
An*  don't  you  ...  let  ...  me  ever  .  .  .  see  you 
.   .   .  agin  .   .   . 

(Clutching  his  hands  to   his  heart,  he  gasps, 
staggers   backward,   then  falls   heavily   to    the 


48  PEGGY 

floor.  The  women  stand  stunned  for  a  moment, 
then  MAG  rushes  over,  kneels  by  him,  and 
shakes  him.) 

MAG 

Will,  Will,  .  .  .  answer  me,  Will,  .  .  .  say  some- 
thin'.  (Turning  to  PEGGY,  who  has  not  moved,  and 
speaking  dully.)  Lord,  Pegg,  he's  dead,  .  .  .  your 
pa's  dead  .  .  .  he's  gone.  Send  for  somebody  .  .  . 
quick ! 

PEGGY 

(Excitedly  to  HERMAN) 

Run  tell  Mister  McDonald  to  come  here  quick. 
He's  down  at  the  house.  Go  git  him  quick.!  (HER 
MAN  runs  out.  MAG,  shaking  with  sobs,  crouches  over 
the  body.  Her  head  is  buried  in  her  apron.  PEGGY 
tries  to  comfort  her  mother.)  Don't  carry  on  like  that, 
ma.  It  ain't  a-doin'  no  good.  (Hopefully.)  Mebbe 
he  ain't  dead. 

MAG 

Yes,  he  is.  He's  gone.  .  .  .  Oh,  Lord  ...  I 
knowed  it'd  git  him. 

(JED  appears  at  the  door  and  stands  stupefied 
for  a  moment.) 

JED 

(Coming  into  the  room) 

What's  the  matter?  (Going  nearer  to  the  body.) 
What's  the  matter  with  Will  ? 


PEGGY  49 

MAG 
He's  gone,  Jed,  he's  gone.    O  Lord! 

JED 
He  ain't  dead,  is  he?    Who  done  it? 

(JED  kneels  over  the  body  and  examines  it  for 
signs  of  life.  MAG  rises  slowly,  shuffles  to  a 
chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  and  sits 
sobbing.) 

PEGGY 
(Appealing) 
Is  he  dead,  Jed,  is  he  dead? 

JED 

I  don't  know.    Git  some  camphor,  quick. 

(PEGGY  runs  into  the  other  room  for  the 
camphor  bottle. 

JOHN  McDoNALD  enters,  followed  by  his 
son,  WESLEY.  The  farm-owner  is  a  tall,  pros 
perous-looking  man  of  forty-eight.  He  has  a 
hard  face  and  stern,  overbearing  manner. 

WESLEY  is  a  rather  handsome  young  fellow 
of  twenty-one,  a  typical  well-dressed  college 
boy.) 

McDoNALD 

(To  JED,  taking  in  the  scene  at  a  glance) 
What's  the  matter?     Is  he  dead? 


50  PEGGY 

JED 
(Rising) 

I  believe  he  is,  Mister  McDonald. 

MCDONALD 
How  did  it  happen  ? 

JED 

I  don't  know. 

MAG 
(Sobbing) 

He's  gone,  Mister  McDonald,  he's  gone.  ...  He 
had  another  one  of  them  fits  with  his  heart  jest  like 
the  doctor  said  he  would,  an*  he  went  all  of  a  sudden 
afore  I  knowed  it. 

MCDONALD 

(Examining  the  body) 

Well,  he's  dead  all  right,  sure.  (Peggy  runs  in 
with  the  camphor  bottle.)  That's  no  use,  he's  dead. 
Jed,  let's  put  him  on  the  bed  in  the  other  room. 

(They    carry    the    body    off    the   stage,    MAG 
following. ) 

WESLEY 

I'm  awfully  sorry,  Peggy.  Tell  me  how  it  hap 
pened. 

PEGGY 
(Crying) 

He  got  mad  with  me  because  I  said  I  wouldn't  marry 
Jed,  an'  he  jest  got  madder  an'  madder  an'  told  me  to 


PEGGY  51 

leave  an*  never  come  back.    An1  then  he  put  his  hands 
up  to  his  heart  like  this,  an'  fell  over. 

WESLEY 
Did  he  have  heart  trouble? 

PEGGY 

Yeah,  I  reckon  so.  He's  been  a-havin'  pains  in  his 
side,  an'  a-chokin'  for  wind,  an'  the  doctor  said  he'd 
have  to  be  keerful. 

WESLEY 
And  he  wanted  you  to  marry  Jed  ? 

PEGGY 
Yeah,  he  said  I'd  have  to. 

WESLEY 

( Under  standingly  ) 
And  you  didn't  want  to? 

PEGGY 

No,  if  I  married  him  I'd  have  to  work  like  a  dog 
all  my  life,  an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  do  it. 

WESLEY 

I  don't  blame  you,  Peggy,  but  what  are  you  going 
to  do? 

PEGGY 
I'm  goin'  to  git  me  a  job  up-town. 


52  PEGGY 

WESLEY 

You  mustn't  go  there,  Peggy.  You  couldn't  get 
along  there. 

PEGGY 

(Looking  to  him  wistfully) 
Well,  what  can  I  do  ? 

WESLEY 
(Thoughtfully) 

I  don't  know.  ...  I  guess  you'd  better  marry  Jed. 
( There  is  a  pause.  PEGGY  goes  over  to  the  window 
and  looks  out  hopelessly.)  If  everything  was  dif 
ferent  I'd  ...  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that.  You  see  such 
a  thing  would  be  impossible. 

PEGGY 

(Turning  to   him,  hopefully) 
But  I  could  .   .   . 

WESLEY 

Stop,  Peggy.  ...  I  think  a  lot  of  you  but  don't 
you  see  I  couldn't  do  more?  It's  impossible.  Don't 
cry  that  way,  Peggy.  I'm  sorry  I  said  what  I  did  this 
afternoon.  I  didn't  mean  to  upset  you  like  this.  Go 
on  and  marry  Jed.  He's  all  right  and  I'll  see  that  he 
gets  a  good  showing. 

PEGGY 

(Desperately) 

But  I  don't  want  to.     I  know  how  it'll  turn  out. 
(McDoNALD    and   JED    return,    followed    by 
MAG.) 


PEGGY  53 

MAG 

(Without  hope) 
What's  a-goin'  to  come  of  us  now  ? 

MCDONALD 
(Brusquely) 
I  don't  know,  Mag. 

MAG 

You  ain't  a-goin'  to  make  us  leave,  air  you? 

McDONALD 

Let's  not  talk  about  that  now. 

MAG 

But  tell  me,  Mister  McDonald,  will  we  have  to 
leave  ? 

McDONALD 

(Impatient) 

Well,  if  you  just  must  know  right  now,  Mag,  I'm 
sorry  to  say  it,  but  I  don't  see  how  I  can  keep  you  here. 

MAG 

(Imploring  him) 
For  God's  sake  don't  make  us  leave  the  place! 

McDONALD 

Now  don't  get  foolish,  Mag.  You  see  it's  a  busi 
ness  proposition  with  me.  With  Will  gone  there's 
nothing  you  and  your  family  could  do  on  the  farm  that 


54  PEGGY 

would  pay  me  to  keep  you  here.  It's  the  man  I  need, 
especially  now  when  .there  is  so  much  plowing  to  be 
done,  and  as  soon  as  I  can  I  will  have  to  get  another 
man  to  take  Will's  place.  Of  course  he  will  have  to 
live  in  this  house. 

MAG 

(Resentful) 

After  Will  has  worked  for  you  steady  for  sixteen 
year  you  ain't  a-goin'  to  turn  me  out  now,  air  you  ? 

Me  DONALD 

I'm  sorry  if  you  look  at  it  in  that  way,  Mag,  but 
business  is  business,  and  I  can't  afford  to  keep  you  here. 

MAG 

But,  Mister  McDonald,  we  ain't  got  nowhere  else 
to  go  ...  an'  we'd  starve  to  death. 
(She  turns  away  sobbing.) 

MCDONALD 

You  ought  to  be  thankful  for  what  I've  done  for 
Will.  He  was  about  the  sorriest  hand  I  ever  had. 
There's  absolutely  nothing  you  can  do.  I  can't  keep 
you. 

WESLEY 
But,  father,  you  can't  turn  them  away  like  this. 

MCDONALD 

It's  time  you  were  learning  that  business  is  not  a 
charitable  institution,  Wesley.  I'm  trying  to  run  a 
farm,  not  a  hard-luck  asylum. 


PEGGY  55 

JED 
Mister  McDonald,  let  me  see  you  a  minute. 

(He  goes  over  and  whispers  to  McDoNALD.) 

McDoNALD 

(To  JED) 

Well,  if  you  do  that  everything  will  be  all  right! 
(PEGGY  looks  up  hopefully.  He  turns  to  MAG.)  Jed 
has  just  said  that  if  Peggy  would  marry  him  he  will 
let  you  and  the  boy  stay  here  in  the  house  with  them. 
If  you  want  to  do  that  it  will  be  all  right  with  me. 

(PEGGY,  disheartened,  sits  down  by  the  table 
and  buries  her  head  in  her  arms,  crying.} 

MAG 

You'll  marry  Jed,  won't  you,  Pegg?  You'll  do  it 
for  your  ma,  won't  you  ? 

McDoNALD 

Well,  I'll  leave  that  for  you  to  decide.  You  can  let 
me  know  later.  (Going  to  the  door.)  Come,  Wesley. 
I'll  send  to  town  for  something  to  put  him  in,  and  Jed 
can  get  help  to  dig  the  grave.  If  you  want  anything, 
let  me  know. 

(McDoNALD  and  WESLEY  go  out.  WESLEY 
hesitates  in  the  door  a  moment,  looking  with 
sympathy  at  PEGGY). 

JED 

(He  goes  slowly  and  uneasily  over  to  PEGGY) 
You  ain't  a-goin'  to  turn  me  down,  air  you,  Peggy? 


56  PEGGY 

MAG 

{Imploring) 

You'll  marry  Jed,  won't  you,  Pegg?  You  ain't 
a-goin'  to  see  your  ol'  ma  go  to  the  poorhouse,  air  you, 
Pegg? 

PEGGY 

(After  a  moment  of  silence  she  raises  her  head  and 

speaks  in  broken  sobs) 
I  reckon  .  .  .  it's  the  only  way  ...  for  me. 

CURTAIN 


DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH! 

A  Comedy  of  Mountain  Moonshiners 

BY 
HUBERT  C.  HEFFNER 


i  Copyright,  1922,  by  The  Carolina  Playmakers,  Inc.  All  rights 
reserved.  Permission  to  produce  this  play  may  be  secured  by  address 
ing  Frederick  H.  Koch,  Director,  The  Carolina  Playmakers,  Inc., 
Chapel  Hill,  North  Carolina. 


"DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!" 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

As  originally  produced  at  The  Play-House,  Chapel 
Hill,  North  Carolina,  April  30  and  May  I,  1920. 

NOAH  SETZER,  a  mountain  moonshiner,  George  Denny 
WALT,  his  son,  an  ex-member  of  the  A.E.F., 

Wilbur  Stout 

MARY,  his  daughter,  lone  Markham 

BILL  SPIVINS,  a  rough  mountaineer,  Bergin  Lohr 

MosE,l  frequenters  of  the  still  and  ( Chester  Burton 
SANK,J  bootleggers  for  Noah  1  Hubert  Heffner 
LAURENCE  ABNER,  a  "revenoor,"  George  Crawford 

SCENE:  A  dense  thicket  in  the  mountains  of  North 
Carolina. 

TIME:  Four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  spring 
of  1919. 


SCENE 

A    TYPICAL  mountain  moonshiner's  retreat  in 

'm       a  remote  cove  in  the  mountains  of  western 
"*•       North  Carolina. 

The  whole  scene  is  hedged  in  on  all  sides  by  a  thicket 
of  tall  rhododendron.  At  the  back  runs  a  small,  trick 
ling  brook  which  supplies  the  water  for  distilling  pur 
poses.  On  the  left  is  the  still  proper,  to  the  right  at 
the  rear,  the  mash  tub.  Boards  are  nailed  between 
some  of  the  trees  to  form  rough  benches.  Near  the 
front  of  the  stage  three  modern,  high-powered  rifles 
are  stacked  against  a  tree.  The  ground  immediately 
around  the  still  shows  signs  of  much  tramping. 

When  the  curtain  rises  WALT  is  discovered,  stand 
ing  by  the  mash  tub,  leaning  idly  on  his  paddle  and 
smoking  a  cigarette.  SANK  is  stretched  out  on  a  bench 
at  the  right,  fast  asleep  and  snoring  loudly.  MOSE 
sprawls  on  the  ground  near  the  still,  smoking  an  old 
cob  pipe. 

MOSE  is  a  heavy-set,  rough  mountaineer.  He  is 
dressed  in  a  blue  shirt,  patched  coat,  and  dirty  khaki 
pants,  stuffed  into  heavy  laced  boots.  There  is  almost 
a  week's  growth  of  stubby  beard  on  his  face. 

SANK  is  a  thin,  shriveled  old  man  of  about  sixty 
years,  so  bent  as  to  appear  little.  He  is  dressed  in 
dirty  khaki  trousers,  blue  shirt,  worn  coat  and  heavy 
shoes,  with  blue  knit  socks  hanging  down  over  his  shoe- 
tops.  His  beard  is  very  scant — thin  as  is  his  shrill 
effeminate  voice. 

61 


62  "DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!" 

WALT  is  a  lank,  lazy-looking  fellow  of  about 
twenty-two.  An  ex-member  of  the  A.  E.  F.f  he  still 
wears  his  overseas  cap  and  military  breeches. 

WALT 

(Looking  at  his  heavy  turnip  watch) 
'Bout  four  o'clock.    Soon  be  through.    So  the  cops 
give  ye  a  hard  run  of  it,  did  they,  Mose  ? 
(He  stirs  the  mash.) 

MOSE 

Yeah,  since  that  thar  pro-ser-ser-bition  .  .  .  they're 
gittin'  tighter'n  a  rum  jug.  I  used  to  could  take  a  run 
o'  brandy  to  Lenore  an'  measure  hit  out  right  on  the 
streets,  but  ye  can't  do  it  no  more. 

WALT 

Guess  ye  took  the  preachers  their  half  o'  gallon  per, 
all  right,  did  ye? 

MOSE 
(Speaking  with  a  drawl,  between  the  puffs  of  his  pipe) 

Yeah,  ever'  sanctified  one  of  'em.  They  can't 
preach  their  hell  fire  and  brimstone  sermonts  if  they 
ain't  got  their  fiery  spirits.  Hit's  about  time  th' 
ol'  man  was  comin'  back.  He's  had  time  to  send  in 
the  watchers,  an'  he  seemed  to  be  so  anxious  to  finish  up 
an'  go  home.  Ye'd  better  git  to  stirrin'  that  mash. 

WALT 

(Smoking  idly) 

Oh,  well.  Mary'll  meet  th'  ol'  man  if  she  went  by 
the  back  way.  What  ye  reckon  she  came  fer,  anyway, 


"DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!"  63 

Mose?     'Tain't  nothin'  here  she  wanted  this  time  o' 
night,  an*  she  didn't  git  nothin'. 

MOSE 

Dunno.  (He  puffs  his  pipe  a  moment.)  Walt, 
since  that  revenoor  is  come  in  these  parts,  I  don't  like 
fer  yer  oP  man  to  send  in  the  watchers  like  he  allus 
does  afore  we  git  the  run  off. 

WALT 

Oh,  well,  but  I  don't  reckon  thar's  any  danger. 
He's  been  at  it  fer  'bout  forty  year  an'  hain't  got  took 
yit.  I'll  say  sumpin'  to  him  about  it  afore  long. 

MOSE 

Ye'd  better  not  to-night.  Th'  oP  man's  mad  as  a 
hornet  to-night.  Ever'thing's  gone  wrong  an'  he's 
a-bilin'  over. 

WALT 

Ye  needn't  worry.  I  know  th'  oP  man  better'n 
that.  (There  is  a  sound  of  heavy  footsteps  outside  as 
NOAH  stumbles  in  the  thicket  and  mutters  an  oath.) 
That's  him  comin'  now.  Don't  ye  say  a  word  'bout 
Mary's  bein'  here,  hear? 

MOSE 

Yeah,  but  some  o'  these  nights  he's  goin*  t'  send  in 
his  watchers  too  early  fer  th'  last  time. 

WALT 

Don't  reckon  so,  but  if'n  he  does — then  au  re-war! 
(The   sound   of   tramping   draws   nearer  and 


64  "DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!" 

NOAH  stamps  heavily  in.  He  is  a  stocky  moun 
taineer,  sixty-five  years  of  age — heavy-set,  ac 
tive  and  muscular.  He  wears  dirty  breeches, 
stained  with  mash,  rough  laced  boots,  a  worn 
hunter's  coat  and  blue  shirt.  His  bushy  gray 
hair  sticks  through  the  torn  crown  of  the  old 
hat  which  he  wears  jammed  down  on  his  head. 
His  face  is  covered  with  a  stubby  gray  beard. 
He  looks  crabbed  and  sullen. 

SANK  snores  on.  MOSE  smokes  in  silence. 
As  NOAH  enters,  WALT  stirs  the  mash  indus 
triously,  but  he  stops  and  leans  lazily  on  his 
paddle  as  the  old  man  goes  to  the  still  and 
begins  fussing  with  the  fire,  muttering  to  him 
self.  NOAH  glares  at  him  several  times,  then 
bursts  out.) 

NOAH 

Walt,  durn  yer  lazy  hide!  Stir  that  mash  an'  git 
a  move  on  ye. 

WALT 

Oui,  oui,  mess-sure.  But,  pa,  what  ye  want  t'  rush 
so  fer?  I'll  git  this  mash  ready  toot-sweet,  'fore  ye're 
ready  fer  it. 

NOAH 

Stop  yer  durn  toot-sweetin'  an*  git  t'  work.  How 
the  devil  d'ye  'spect  to  git  this  run  done  'fore  mornin' 
if  ye  ain't  a-goin'  to  work! 

(NoAH  continues  to  work  at  the  still.  WALT 
stirs  the  mash  for  a  few  moments  and  then 
leans  idly  on  his  paddle  once  more. 


"DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!"  65 

MOSE 

(Still  sprawling  on  the  ground) 
T'other  night,  like  I  was  a-tellin'  ye,  Walt,  when  I 
was  comin'  back  from  takin'  that  run  o'  brandy  down 
to  Lenore,  I  heared  that  man  Abner  had  been  kind  o' 
hangin'  roun'  yer  sis  Mary. 

WALT 

Who  tol'  ye  that?     (He  pokes  his  mash  paddle  at 
SANK'S  nose.)     Wake  up  thar,  Sank!     Fall  out! 

(WALT  laughs.  SANK  sleepily  strikes  at  the 
paddle  and  begins  to  yawn  and  stretch.) 

MOSE 

I  heared  it  down  to  Patterson  when  I  was  a-comin* 
back,  but  I  disrecollec'  who  tol'  it. 

WALT 
Pertite  madamerzelle!     D'ye  hear  that,  pa? 

(NoAH  works  on,  sullenly  refusing  to  answer. 
SANK  is  now  sufficiently  awake  to  catch  the  last 
remark.) 

SANK 
Hear  what,  Walt?    Hear  what,  ye  say? 

MOSE 

Hear    that    Mary's   been    a-carryin'    on   with    that 
Abner.     Ye  hyeard  it. 

SANK 

Yes,  Walt,  that's  right,  so  'tis,  so  'tis.     I  heared 
Jinkins,  the  Post  Office  man,  down  to  Patterson  say, 


66  "DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!" 

says  he,  that  this  here  Abner  was  a  revenooer  fer  he  got 
letters  from  the  givermint,  so  he  did — an'  that  he's 
a  carryin'  on  with  Mary,  so  he  was. 

NOAH 
(Unable  to  remain  silent  any  longer,  turns  and  glares 

at  SANK) 
That's  a  ding-busted  lie! 

WALT 
No,  'tain't,  pa.     I  seed  Mary  talkin'  to  'im. 

NOAH 
Then  why  in  hell  didn't  ye  ... 

WALT 

'Twon't  do,  pa.  I  thought  about  it,  but  I  larned 
when  they  took  me  to  camp  that  it  was  beaucoo  hell  to 
pay  fer  gittin'  one  o'  his  kind.  Then  over  thar  in 
France  one  time  .  .  . 

NOAH 

Dad-durn  France!  Hit  don't  make  a  dang  what  ye 
larned  in  France.  Hit's  a-goin'  down  the  Ridge  thar 
that  this  here  Abner  is  a  revenooer. 

WALT 

Parlay  voo!  How'd  ye  git  like  that,  pa?  (NoAH 
again  turns  to  his  work  in  surly  silence.)  Say,  pa, 
air  ye  sure  o'  that?  (NoAH  refuses  to  answer  and 
WALT  points  to  him,  laughing.)  That  mess-sure  no 
parlay  Fransay. 

(He  picks  up  a  can  of  liquor  near  him  and 


"DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!"  67 

drinks  from   it,   then    offers   it   to    MOSE   and 
SANK.     Both  refuse.) 

MOSE 

Too  early  in  the  mornin'  to  drink.  Want  my  liquor 
in  the  daytime  or  in  the  fore  part  o'  the  night.  'Bout 
time  Bill  was  comin'  fer  his  liquor. 

SANK 
Yes,  it  be,  an'  it  be.    He  ought  to  soon  be  here. 

MOSE 

Bill's  ol'  'oman  said  that  Mary  was  purty  well  took 
with  that  Abner  feller. 

SANK 

She  must  be,  yes  she  be.  My  ol'  'oman  said  that 
Bill's  ol'  'oman  said  that  Mary  sees  a  right  smart  o' 
that  feller. 

WALT 
How  d'ye  know  Mary  sees  'im  ? 

MOSE 

I  beared  said  that  Mary  meets  him  in  the  day  time 
while  ye're  sleepin',  Noah. 

SANK 
Yes,  she  do,  an'  she  do. 

WALT 
Pa,  d'ye  hear  that? 


68  "DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!" 

NOAH 
(Unable  to  hold  in  any  longer,  now  bursts  out  in 

a  rage) 

Dod  gast  her  divilish  soul,  a  gal  o'  mine  carryin'  on 
with  a  revenooer!  She  ain't  been  the  same  since  she 
came  back  from  that  thar  ding-busted  school  over  thar 
to  Boone.  Dod-burn  her  durned  hide !  I's  allus  agin' 
her  goin'  over  thar,  but  her  ma  sent  her,  an'  then  layed 
down  an'  died  on  me,  an'  left  her  fer  me  to  ten'  to. 

WALT 

You  ain't  tended  to  her,  much,  pa.  Ye  been  tendin' 
to  this  here  most  o'  yer  time. 

NOAH 
(Furiously) 

Who  in  hell  axed  ye  to  speak?  Stir  that  mash,  damn 
ye,  stir  that  mash.  (WALT  goes  to  work  as  NOAH 
fumes  on.)  So  ye  think  I'd  let  a  gal  o'  mine  marry 
one  o'  them  danged  revenooers,  do  ye  ? 

WALT 
No,  pa,  but  .  .  . 

NOAH 

Shet  up,  durn  ye,  shet  up!  (Stamping  about  in  a 
rage.)  I'd  see  her  in  hell  first!  I'd  .  .  . 

SANK 

That's  right,  Noah.  So  'tis,  so  'tis.  I  don't  blame 
ye,  so  I  don't,  so  I  ... 


"DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!"  69 

NOAH 

(Turning  on  him) 
Shet  up!    Who  axed  ye  t'  speak? 


SANK 

(Fawningly) 
Well,  Noah,  I  ... 

NOAH 
Shet  up,  I  said.    What're  ye  doin'  here  anyhow? 

SANK 

Ye  tol'  us  to  come  an'  git  this  run  o'  liquor  to  take 
to  Patterson,  so  ye  did. 

NOAH 

How  ye  goin'  to  'spect  me  to  git  this  run  off  an'  ye 
an'  Mose  settin'  aroun'  runnin'  yer  mouths.  Git  that 
thar  bucket  an'  go  fotch  some  water.  If'n  I's  as  ding- 
busted  lazy  as  the  rest  o'  ye,  I  never  would  git  'nough 
juice  made  fer  them  thar  judges  an'  lawyers,  not  to 
say  nothin'  'bout  them  preachers. 

(MosE  and  SANK  hurry  off  with  a  bucket. 
NOAH  continues  to  fume  arowid  the  still.) 

WALT 

Pa,  'tother  day  when  we's  a-talkin'  'bout  that  thar 
man,  Abner,  bein'  a  revenooer,  Mary  comes  in  an' 
says  that  he  wa'n't  no  revenooer,  an'  that  he's  some 


70  "DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!" 

kind  o'  magerzine  scribbler,  or  somethin',  an'  we  axed 
'er  how  she  knowed  it,  an'  she  said  she  jes'  knowed  he 
wa'n't. 

(NoAH  pays  no  attention  to  him.     MOSE  and 

SANK  enter  with  the  water.) 

SANK 

Yeah,  that's  so,  so  'tis,  fer  Mary  tol*  my  oP  'oman 
that  you  all  was  tellin'  lies  'bout  that  thar  man  Abner, 
she  did,  so  she  did.  An'  she  said  that  Abner's  a  better 
man  than  any  of  us  'uns,  she  did,  so  she  did  .  .  . 

NOAH 

(Breaking  out) 

Consarn  ye!  Bring  that  thar  water  here.  (He 
grabs  the  bucket.)  What  ye  standin'  thar  fer?  (He 
goes  to  pour  the  water  into  the  still,  but  in  his  anger 
he  spills  it  on  the  fire,  almost  putting  it  out.  He  turns 
on  SANK  furiously.)  Dod-limb  ye,  Sank!  Dod  gast 
ye>  ye  goozle-necked  ol'  fool  ye!  What  ye  a-goin'  an' 
puttin'  that  thar  fire  out  fer  ?  Ding-bust  ye,  yer  .  .  . 

SANK 
(Cringing) 
I  didn't  put  it  out,  Noah,  so  I  ... 

NOAH 

(Sputtering) 
Ye  ...  ye  ...  ye  hum-duzzled  .  .  . 


"DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!"  71 

SANK 

(Shrinking  from  him) 

Leastwise  I  didn't  go  fer  to  do  it,  Noah,  so  I 
didn't. 

WALT 
Pa,  ye  put  the  fire  out  yerself,  an* — 

NOAH 

Shet  up,  ye  whing-duzzled  yaller  boomer  ye!  Ye 
ain't  no  better'n  yer  sis!  Both  o'  ye  be  a  bunch  o' 
cowards,  an'  ye  ... 

WALT 
Oo  la-la!    Sweet  pa-pa! 

NOAH 

Dod  gast  ye!  Stop  that  thar  la-la-in'  an'  pa-pa-in* 
or  I'll  wring  yer  neck! 

WALT 
Aw,  pa,  I  didn't  go  fer  to — 

NOAH 
Shet  up  them  jaws  o'  yer'n!    D'ye  hear  me? 

MOSE 

Noah,  my  ol'  'oman  said  that  that  thar  gal  o'  yer'n 
went  plum'  down  to  the  rock  to  meet  that  thar  Abner, 
an'— 

NOAH 

Ding-dang  her!  I'm  a-goin'  home  right  now  an' 
see  if  n  she'll  . 


72  "DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!" 

(He  starts  off  right  just  as  three  owl  hoots  ring 
out  in  the  distance,  followed  by  a  shrill  "Bob- 
white/'  NOAH  hesitates  a  moment*) 


MOSE 

Thar  comes  Bill  fer  his  brandy.     That's  his  call. 
I'll  give  him  the  come-on. 

(He  returns  the  call.) 

BILL 

(Singing  drunkenly  as  he  approaches  from  the  left) 


Way        up        on     Clinch        Moun.tain       I 


5£ 


££ 


n 


wan-der      a  .      lone.     lin      as       drunk     as     the 


Dev  .    11         Oh>         let        me        a     .      lone. 


Banjo  Accompaniment 


"DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!"  73 

I'll  eat  when  I'm  hungry, 

En  drink  when  I'm  dry; 
En  if  whiskey  don't  kill  me, 

I'll  live  till  I  die. 


O  Lulu,  O  Lulu! 

0  Lulu,  my  dear! 

I'd  give  this  whole  world 
Ef  my  Lulu  was  hyer. 

Jack  o'  diamonds,  jack  o'  diamonds, 

1  know  you  of  oP — 
You  rob  my  pore  pockets 

O'  silver  an'  goP. 


SANK 
Ah-hah.     Drunk  agin'! 

BILL 

(He  enters  from  the  left.  BILL  SPIVINS  is  a 
rough,  careless  mountaineer.  He  wears  clothes 
of  the  same  drab  tone  as  those  of  the  other  men. 
His  big,  bloated  face  marks  him  as  a  heavy 
drinker  and  he  shows  in  his  singing  and  in  his 
speech  the  effects  of  his  liquor.  He  calls  after 
NOAH.) 

Hey,  thar,  Noah  .  .  .  whar  be  ye  a-goin'  ?  .  .  .  I 
wanna  git  my  brandy  afore  ye  leave  ...  Ye  done 
an'  sint  yer  watchers  in,  ain't  ye?  Whar  be  ye 
a-goin'?  .  .  . 


74  "DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!" 

NOAH 

(Coming  back) 

That  dod-gasted  gal  o'  mine's  been  carryin'  on  with 
that  thar  damned  revenooer,  Abner,  an'  I  jes'  started  to 
give  her  hell,  an'  make  her  stop  it.  A  gal  o'  mine 
carryin'  on  with  a  revenooer ! 

BILL 

Hit  must  be  so  then  ...  I  been  down  the  Ridge 
...  an5  when  I  come  back  my  ol'  'oman  said  that 
yer  gal,  Mary  .  .  .  was  a-carryin'  on  with  him  .  .  . 

WALT 

What  else  did  she  say,  Bill?  Mary  allus  tells  yer 
ol'  'oman  ever'thing. 

BILL 

Wai,  she  said  that  Mary  said  that  .  .  .  this  here 
Abner  wasn't  no  revenooer  ...  an'  that  she  had  met 
him  over  thar  to  Boone  .  .  . 

NOAH 

She's  a-lyin'!  That  Abner  gits  letters  from  the 
givermint. 

SANK 

An'  he  ain't  never  been  to  Boone.  He's  a  furriner 
in  these  parts,  an'  he's  a  ding-busted  revenooer. 

BILL 

My  el'  'oman  says  Mary  wants  to  run  off  with 
him  .  .  .  but  she's  skeered  to,  fer  she  knows  what  ye'd 
do,  Noah.  .  .  .  An'  she  says  he  ain't  no  revenooer  an* 


"DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!"  75 

she's  goin'  t'  show  us  he  ain't  ...  an*  that  she's  a-goin' 
t'  marry  him. 

NOAH 

Dod  gast  her!  I'll  be  the  one  to  say  about  that. 
My  gal  run  off  with  a  revenooer!  No,  by  the  holy 
damn,  I'll  see  her  in  hell  first! 

BILL 

My  ol'  'oman  said  that  Mary  was  jes'  like  her  ma 
...  an'  that  she's  up  to  somethin'  now  ...  an1  if  n 
ye  didn't  watch  out  she'd  marry  that  revenooer  yit. 

SANK 

Yes,  she  will,  Noah,  so  she  will.  Ye'd  better  watch 
her,  so  ye  had. 

NOAH 

Shet  up,  Sank,  ye  ding-busted  ol'  jay-hawk  ye,  shet 
up! 

BILL 

My  ol'  'oman  said  .  .  .  that  yer  ol'  'oman  allus  had 
her  way  'fore  she  died  ...  an'  that  she  didn't  listen  to 
ye  when  she  didn't  want  .  .  . 

NOAH 

Dod  gast  yer  ol'  'oman !  She's  allus  sayin'  too  much. 
Gimme  yer  jug.  (He  takes  the  jug,  fills  it,  and  hands 
it  back  to  BILL.)  Don't  ye  fergit  to  bring  me  them 
'taters  to  pay  fer  this.  Ye  owe  me  two  bushels  now. 


76  "DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!" 

BILL 

My  ol'  'oman  said  that  that  man  Abner's  up  in 
these  parts  to-day  .  .  .  an'  thet  yer  gal  met  him  over 
to  the  rock,  an'  that  she  believed  they's  up  to  somethin' ! 
Mary  ain't  been  home  to-day.  .  .  .  Ye'd  better  watch 
her,  Noah.  .  .  .  She'll  git  ye  yit. 

NOAH 

Dad  burn  ye,  git  out  o'  here!  A  gal  o'  mine  an'  a 
revenooer  git  me!  Ye  ding-busted  yaller-livered  fool, 
git  out !  Ain't  I  the  best  man  on  this  side  o'  the  Ridge  ? 
Ain't  I  boss  here? 

SANK 
Yes,  ye  be,  Noah,  so  ye  be. 

(BiLL  reels  out  with  his  jug.) 

MOSE 

Noah,  'tother  night  down  to  Curtis's  store  I  heared 
that  Abner  was  sent  here  by  the  givermint  to  git  ye 
fer  killin'  that  other  revenooer  a  few  years  ago. 

NOAH 
(Startled) 

What's  that?  What're  ye  sayin',  Mose?  Ye're  a 
liar!  That's  what  ye  are.  Ye're  a  liar,  I  say! 
Ye're  .  .  . 

MOSE 

Stop  that,  Noah.  I's  givin'  ye  straight  talk,  an'  ye 
ain't  to  be  callin'  me  a  liar.  I  don't  have  to  work  fer 
ye,  an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to.  ... 


"DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!"  77 

NOAH 

(More  calmly) 

I  didn't  mean  it  'zactly  like  that,  Mose,  but  ... 
but  ... 

MOSE 

That's  the  truth,  Noah.  Ol'  man  Jinkins  tol'  hit 
hisself. 

SANK 
Yes  it  be,  so  it  be.    I  heared  him  myself,  so  I  did. 

WALT 
Pa,  that's  why  he's  been  hangin'  roun'  Mary.    He's 

tryin'  to  pick  it  out  o'  her,  so  he  c'n  git  us,  an'  he's 

caught  her.    That's  hit. 

(At  this  moment  MARY  SETZER  carefully  peers 
through  the  rhododendron  branches  at  the  right. 
She  is  a  pretty  mountain  girl,  simply  dressed  in 
a  plain  but  becoming  pink  gingham.  Without 
having  been  seen,  she  withdraws  noiselessly  into 
the  bushes  again.) 

NOAH 

Gol  ding  her,  she  ain't  got  no  more  sense  'n  to  iet 
him  ketch  her  an'  then  let  him  be  hangin'  'roun  to  spy 
an'  larn  all  he  can. 

WALT 
Pa,  hadn't  we  better  skip  an'  git  out'n  this? 

NOAH 

An'  leave  all  this  an'  be  skeered  to  come  back  to  git 
it?  No,  I  ain't  goin'  t'  let  no  revenooer  run  me. 
They  ain't  never  done  it  yit  an'  they  ain't  never  goin' 


78  "DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH !" 

t'  do  hit.  I'll  go  down  thar  to  Patterson  to-morrow, 
an'  I'll  take  ol'  Beck  over  thar  (pointing  to  his  rifle), 
an'  I'll  fix  this  here  dod-gasted,  ding-fuzzled  reve- 
nooer  like  I  did  'tother'n.  An'  then  I'll  take  that  gal 
o'  mine  .  .  . 

(NoAH  is  interrupted  by  LAURENCE  ABNER, 
who  breaks  through  the  thicket  at  the  right, 
followed  by  MARY  SETZER,  who  keeps  a  safe 
distance  in  the  rear,  yet  is  on  the  alert,  ready  to 
assist  him  if  necessary.  ABNER  is  a  good-look 
ing  young  man,  trimly  dressed  in  clothes  suit 
able  for  mountain  wear.) 

ABNER 
(Firing  a  shot  and  then  covering  the  moonshiners  with 

a  pistol) 

Hands  up,  gents!  (They  turn,  startled.  WALT 
and  MOSE  spring  toward  the  rifles  but  ABNER  stops 
them.)  None  of  that,  gents.  It'll  mean  death  if  you 
try  it  again. 

NOAH 
Dod  gast  ye ! 

ABNER 

First  time  a  revenuer  ever  had  the  ups  on  you,  isn't 
it?  Now,  gents,  kindly  move  over  to  this  side  and 
remove  your  coats  so  that  I  may  see  that  you  are  not 
armed.  (The  men  obey  his  orders  as  he  motions  them 
over  to  the  left  with  his  pistols.)  No  tricks,  remem 
ber  !  I  learned  to  shoot  pretty  straight  in  the  army. 


"DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!"  79 

WALT 

Larned  to  shoot  in  the  army,  huh  ?  Wai,  that  hain't 
nothin'.  While  I  's  over  thar  in  France  I  captured 
'bout  forty  Bochers,  three  big  rumble-bumble  guns,  an' 
a  dozen  or  more  rifles  an'  .  .  . 

MARY 

(Advancing) 

Aw,  now,  Walt,  ye  wa'n't  never  up  at  the  shootin' 
line.  Ye  said  ye  peeled  'taters  all  the  time. 

WALT 

Parlay  whippay  dally  doodle  doo !  Air  ye  here,  Sis  ? 
Wai,  ye  jes'  watch  the  ol'  man. 

NOAH 

(Seeing  MARY) 

Dod  gast  ye,  gal!  Ding-damn  ye!  Here's  that 
damned  ol'  jay-pipin'  horn  frog  what  ye  been  a-hangin' 
aroun'  with — ye  see  now  if  he  ain't  a  revenooer,  don't 
ye?  Dad-burn  yer  hum-duzzled  soul!  Consarn  the 
dod-limbed  hide  o'  ye!  Ye  see  whar  yer  pa  is,  do  ye? 
Damn  ye,  I'll  fix  ye.  ... 

(He  starts  toward  MARY,  but  ABNER  motions 
him  back  with  his  pistol.) 

ABNER 

Hold  on  there!  You  want  to  be  careful  and  not 
forget  that  I've  got  you  at  present,  and  the  law  doesn't 
deal  any  too  lightly  with  your  kind,  especially  since 
prohibition. 


8o  "DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!" 

(WALT  slinks  around  behind  the  mash  tub  and 
picks  up  a  club.  The  "revenooer"  is  occupied 
watching  NOAH,  and  WALT  steals  closer  to 
him,  while  the  old  man  rages.) 

NOAH 

Damn  ye,  ye  yaller-back  'tater  bug  ye!  Ye  got  me 
now,  but  ye  jes'  wait.  What  ye  goin'  t'  do  with  us? 

ABNER 
What  would  you  give  me  to  let  you  off? 

NOAH 

(Surprised) 
What!     What's  that  ye  say? 

(WALT  has  now  crept  up  close  behind  ABNER. 
He  raises  his  club  and  springs  forward,  but 
MARY  seizes  his  arm.) 

MARY 
Don't  try  nothin'  like  that,  Walt.    Hit  won't  work. 

NOAH 
(Regaining  his  voice,  he  sputters  in  his  uncontrolled 

rage) 

Ding-damn  ye !  Dod  gast  ye  ...  ye  ...  ye  ... 
consarn  ye  ...  ye  ...  damn  ye  .  .  .  ye  be  helping 
this  here  revenooer  to  take  yer  own  pa.  So  that's  what 
ye  come  here  fer,  ye  durn  yaller  boomer  ye!  Ye 
divilish  dog!  Ye  allus  was  jes'  like  yer  ma.  Ye  said 
he  wa'n't  no  revenooer,  so  ye  did.  Well,  ye  lied,  gal, 
ye  lied,  an'  I'll  git  ye.  ... 


"DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!"  81 

ABNER 

Hold  on  a  minute.  You  seem  to  forget  that  I've 
got  you  all  just  at  present,  and  I'm  likely  to  keep  you. 
But  just  for  the  fun  of  knowing — what  would  you  give 
me  to  let  you  go  ? 

NOAH 
Ding-bust  ye!     By  that  rotten  mash  over  thar  .   .   . 

ABNER 
Don't  swear  by  the  mash,  I've  captured  it,  too. 

SANK 
So  he  has,  Noah,  so  he  has. 

NOAH 

Dad  durn  ye,  Sank!  Damn  ye — Walt — if  ye'd  do 
somethin' — if  ye'd  drag  him  off — he  wouldn't  be 
standin'  there  with  his  gun  drawed  on  us.  But  ye 
stand  thar  a-runnin'  yer  clop-trop  mouths  an'  doin' 
nothin'.  Why  don't  ye  ... 

WALT 

Holy  scents  of  sweet  smellin'  asserfiditty !  Why 
don't  ye  do  hit  yerself,  pa? 

ABNER 

Here  now,  let's  come  to  business.  If  you're  not 
going  to  make  me  an  offer,  I'll  make  you  one.  If  you'll 
let  me  marry  your  daughter,  we'll  call  this  off.  What 
do  you  say? 


82  "DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!" 

NOAH 
(Amazed) 

What's  that?  (Beginning  to  understand,  he  stamps 
the  ground  in  a  rage  and  advances  toward  ABNER,  who 
motions  him  back  with  his  pistols.)  Marry  my  gal,  a 
revenooer  marry  my  gal!  Ye  dod  gasted  pole-cat  ye! 
Ye  ding-busted  stinkin'  possum  skunk !  Ye  bow-legged 
'tater-bug  ye!  I'll  see  ye  in  Heck's  ol'  pine  field 
twenty  miles  'tother  side  o'  hell  first.  I'll  .  .  . 
I'll  .  .  . 

ABNER 

Just  a  minute  before  you  go  on.  Listen  to  this — 
if  I  take  you  down  the  Ridge,  as  I  certainly  will  if  you 
don't  do  as  I  say,  think  of  the  days  in  prison.  You're 
an  old  man  and  you  would  probably  die  there  between 
the  walls,  behind  the  bars.  People  would  come  to  see 
you,  and  point  their  fingers  through  the  bars  at  you 
as  they  do  the  animals  at  the  circus,  and  they'd  say, 
"There's  Noah  Setzer.  He  used  to  be  the  leader  on 
this  side  of  the  ridge,  but  a  revenuer  gets  them  all,  and 
one  got  him."  Then  there'll  be  your  son  and  all  these 
other  fellows  in  cages  beside  you.  .  .  . 

SANK 

That's  right,  Noah,  so  'tis,  so  'tis.  He'll  take  us  all, 
so  he  will,  an'  ... 

NOAH 

Shet  up,  ye  ... 


"DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!"  83 

ABNER 

And  then  there's  another  thing  I  want  to  tell  you 
before  I  take  you.  I  have  the  proof  that  you  and  your 
son  were  the  men  who  killed  the  revenue  officers  four 
years  ago.  At  your  trial  I  shall  turn  the  evidence 
against  you  both.  That  means  death  for  you. 

NOAH 
Wh-wh-what's  that  .  .  . 

ABNER 

Just  think !  They'll  lead  you,  the  boss  of  the  Ridge, 
in  like  a  cow,  and  sit  you  down  in  a  chair.  And  then 
they'll  turn  on  just  enough  juice  to  burn  you,  and  let 
you  know  how  it  feels.  Then  gradually  they'll  turn 
it  on  full  force  and  your  bones  will  snap  and  it'll  cook 
the  flesh  off  your  live  body! 

SANK 
Give  him  yer  gal,  Noah,  give  him  yer  gal ! 

MARY 

(Glancing  at  ABNER  with  a  smile) 
Pa,  he's  got  ye,  so  ye'd  better  give  in.  If  ye  don't, 
jes'  think  what  the  Ridge'll  say  when  he  takes  ye  to 
jail.  Ye'll  be  the  only  Setzer  they've  ever  got  yet! 
I'm  willin'  to  marry  him,  an'  if  you'll  let  me,  it'll  save 
us  all.  I'm  goin'  t'  marry  him,  anyhow. 

NOAH 
Well,  marry  him  an'  ...  damn  ye  both! 


84  "DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!" 

ABNER 

(Lowering  his  pistol,  and  laughing) 
Thank  you,  Mr.  Setzer. 

NOAH 

Damn  ye  ...  don't  "Mister"  me!  An'  I  don't 
want  none  o'  yer  thanks.  .  .  .  ( To  MARY  and  ABNER, 
who  are  now  both  convulsed  with  laughter.)  What're 
ye  laughin'  at? 

ABNER 

Well,  you  see  I'm  not  a  revenue  officer  after  all. 
I'm  just  a  magazine  writer  up  in  these  mountains 
collecting  materials  and — incidentally  (Smiling  at 
MARY) — a  wife.  This  has  been  the  first  real  fun  I've 
had  since  the  Boston  Police  Riot. 

NOAH 
Ye're  not  a  ...  a  ...  dod  gasted  .   .  . 

MARY 
(Who  has  been  standing  by  ABNER'S  side,  now  steps 

forward) 

No,  he  ain't,  pa.  We  wanted  to  git  married,  but  I 
couldn't  think  of  runnin'  away  like  Laurence  wanted 
me  to,  an'  the  whole  Ridge  a-thinkin'  that  me,  a 
Setzer,  had  run  away  with  a  revenooer.  An'  then,  I 
couldn't  a  never  come  back,  fer  ye'd  'a  got  us. 

SANK 
Yes,  he  would-'a,  so  he  would-'a. 


s 


"DOD  GAST  YE  BOTH!"  85 

MARY 

An'  we  wanted  to  be  married  right  away,  but  we 
couldn't  think  o'  no  way  to  prove  that  Laurence  wa'n't 
no  revenooer,  so  we — 

ABNER 
(Breaking  in) 

Mary  happened  to  remember  a  hold-up  like  this 
which  she  told  me  about  when  we  were  over  at  Boone, 
and  then — 

WALT 

(Interrupting,  with  a  loud  guffaw) 
And  then  ye  planned  all  this  jes'  to  git  us? 

(MARY  and  ABNER  nod  a  smiling  assent.) 

ABNER 

Yes,  and  I'm  going  to  get  a  corking  good  story  out 
of  it,  too. 

WALT 

Pa,  ye  said  a  revenooer  wa'n't  never  goin'  t'  git  ye! 
Why  he  ain't  even  a  revenooer's  picter  an'  he's  got  ye ! 

NOAH 

(Unable  to  restrain  his  rage) 

Dad  burn  ye !  Ding  dang  ye,  ...  an'  ye  hain't  no 
revenooer  .  .  .  !  If  I'd  a  knowed  that  .  .  .  dad  burn 
ye  ...  by  jumpin'  Jupiter's  horn  snake,  I'll  not  stand 
fer  hit.  .  .  .  I'll  .  .  . 

MARY 

Hold  on,  thar,  pa,  ye've  done  give  yer  promise,  an' 
Walt  an'  Mosc  an'  Sank  all  beared  ye. 


86  "DOD  CAST  YE  BOTH!" 

SANK 
Yes,  ye  did,  Noah,  an'  ye  did! 

MARY 

We  got  ye,  pa,  an'  ye  can't  go  back  on  yer  promise. 
So  we're  goin'  to  git  married  an'  stay  on  right  here. 

NOAH 
(Violently) 

Damn  ye !  Dod-limb  ye  .  .  .ye  hum-duzzled  .  .  . 
(He  recovers  his  composure,  takes  a  quart  bottle, 
goes  to  the  still  and  fills  it  from  the  worm.)  I'll  git 
even  wid  ye.  Jes'  wait,  I'll  git  ye,  durn  ye!  (He 
hands  the  bottle  to  ABNER.)  Here,  take  this  here 
quart,  an'  clear  out  o'  here,  an'  stay  out,  an — (He 
stands,  shaking  his  fists  at  them  as  they  go  off  laughing. 
There  is  just  the  trace  of  a  grin  on  his  face) — an'  dod- 
gast  ye  both ! 


CURTAIN 


OFF    NAGS     HEAD1 
OR  THE  BELL  BUOY 

A  Tragedy  of  the  North  Carolina  Coast 
BY 

DOUGALD    MACMlLLAN 


O        •"•   -.*-^".**^«,       j.x.        AWVU«        A-/ 

Chapel  Hill,  North  Carolina. 


OFF  NAGS  HEAD 
OR   THE  BELL  BUOY 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

As  originally  produced  at  The  Play-House,  Chapel 
Hill,  North  Carolina,  April  30  and  May  I,  1920. 

AN  OLD  FISHERMAN,  Jonathan  Daniels 

THE  ''GAL,"  his  daughter,  Mildred  Sherrill 

THE  SICK  WOMAN,  the  fisherman's  wife, 

Aline  Hughes 

THE  DOCTOR,  David  Reid  Hodgin 

THE  OLD  WOMAN,  Elizabeth  Taylor 

SCENE  :  A  fisherman's  hut  on  the  sand  dunes  of  Nags 

Head  on  the  North  Carolina  Coast. 
TIME:  September,  1869.     A  stormy  night. 


OFF  NAGS  HEAD 
SCENE 

V  FISHERMAN'S  hut  on  the  North  Carolina  sand 
j^-M     banks,  at  Nags  Head. 

"**    Jjt  The  roar  of  the  surf  and  the  distant  clang- 

ing  of  the  bell  buoy  can  be  heard  before  the  curtain 
rises  on  a  room  furnished  meagrely  and  not  very  neat 
in  appearance.  There  is  a  door  at  the  back  to  the  left, 
opening  out  on  the  beach;  to  the  right  a  small  window, 
closed  by  a  rough  shutter.  Between  the  door  and  the 
window,  on  the  back  wall,  hangs  an  old  portrait  in  a 
tarnished  gilded  frame.  It  is  a  handsome  painting  of 
a  young  woman.  At  the  beginning  of  the  play  it  is 
covered  by  a  coarse  woolen  cloth. 

There  is  a  fireplace  in  the  left  side  wall  and  in  that 
corner  a  table  with  a  water  bucket.  On  the  right  a 
door  opens  into  the  adjoining  room.  A  lantern,  hung 
on  a  nail  by  the  fireplace,  gives  a  flickering  light. 

It  is  nearly  dark  on  an  evening  in  September  and  a 
storm  is  piling  up  mountains  of  spray  in  the  surf,  some 
distance  across  the  beach.  Throughout  the  entire 
action  the  roar  of  the  surf  and  the  ringing  of  the  bell 
buoy  can  be  heard.  It  is  far  away,  but  you  could  hear 
it  at  any  time;  only,  when  some  one  is  talking,  you  do 
not  notice  the  distant  clanging.  From  time  to  time  the 
wind  howls  around  the  house,  and  every  now  and  then 

91 


92  OFF  NAGS  HEAD 

the  smoke  blows  out  of  the  fireplace,  in  which  a  fire 
of  driftwood  is  struggling  to  overcome  the  .draft  down 
the  chimney. 

A  woman  is  lying  on  a  low  bed  in  the  corner  of  the 
room  to  the  right.  She  is  moaning  as  if  she  were  suf 
fering  acutely.  The  old  FISHERMAN  is  standing  by 
the  bed  with  a  conch-shell  of  water  in  his  hand.  He 
touches  the  woman  on  the  shoulder. 

FISHERMAN 
Here,  want  a  drink  o'  water? 

(The  woman  moans  and  raises  her  head  slightly. 
The  FISHERMAN  holds  the  shell  to  her  lips. 
She  drinks  a  swallow  and  sinks  back  on  the 
bed.  The  FISHERMAN  puts  the  shell  on  top  of 
the  water  bucket  and,  crossing  to  the  fireplace, 
begins  to  mend  a  shrimp  seine  lying  across  a 
chair.  He  sits  down  with  the  seine  in  his  lap. 
The  SICK  WOMAN  moans  again  and  moves 
restlessly.  He  turns  toward  her.) 
Doctor  Wright'll  be  here  purty  soon.  The  gal's 
been  gone  long  enough  to  be  back. 

(After  a  moment  of  silence  the  door  at  the  back 
opens  and  the  GIRL  comes  in  with  an  apron  full 
of  driftwood  that  she  has  picked  up  on  the 
beach.  She  has  a  shawl  drawn  tightly  around 
her  shoulders  and  her  colorless  hair  has  been 
blown  into  wisps  about  her  freckled  face.  She 
whines  in  a  nasal  drawl  when  she  talks. 
Dragging  her  heels,  she  shuffles  over  to  the  fire 
place  and  drops  the  wood  in  a  pile  on  the  hearth. 


OFF  NAGS  HEAD  93 

The  FISHERMAN  turns  to  the  door  as  she  comes 
in,  speaking  anxiously.) 
Is  he  comin'  ? 

GIRL 

Doctor  Wright's  gone  over  to  Jug  Neck  an'  won't 
be  back  till  to-morrow.  I  foun'  a  docto'  at  oP  man 
Stokes's  though.  He  come  thar  to-day  from  Raleigh. 
He's  comin'.  (She  hangs  her  shawl  on  a  hook  behind 
the  door  and  goes  to  the  SICK  WOMAN.)  Is  it  bad? 
(The  SICK  WOMAN  groans.) 

FISHERMAN 
Did  you  see  the  ol'  'oman  ? 

GIRL 

Naw.    Is  she  gone? 

FISHERMAN 
Been  gone  'bout  an  hour. 

GIRL 
Which  way'd  she  go  ? 

FISHERMAN 
Toward  the  inlet. 

GIRL 
(She  rises  from  bending  over  the  SICK  WOMAN  and 

goes  to  the  door  for  her  shawl.) 
M  .  .  .  hm.    Time  she  was  back.    I'll  go  hunt  'er. 


94  OFF  NAGS  HEAD 

FISHERMAN 

Wait.    Maybe  she'll  come  in  in  a  minute.     I'll  go 
hunt.    How  high  is  the  tide  now  ? 

GIRL 

(Hangs  up  her  shawl  again  but  speaks  anxiously) 
Them  stakes  fo'  Jones's  shack  is  covered  an'  it's 
washin'  up  under  the  seine  racks. 

FISHERMAN 
M  .  .  .  hm.     Purty  bad. 

GIRL 
An'  it's  so  misty  you  can't  see  the  Topsail  Light. 

(She  goes  to  the  fireplace  and  crouches  there, 
warming  her  hands.) 

FISHERMAN 

Huh.    This  is  a  worse  storm'n  we've  had  in  a  long 
time. 

(He  goes  to  the  door  and  looks  out.     The  bell 
buoy  clangs.) 

GIRL 

Listen  to  that  bell  buoy.     It  makes  me  feel  so  quar. 
(She  shivers.) 

FISHERMAN 

Don'  you  take  on  like  that.     The  ol*  'oman's  bad 
enough. 


OFF  NAGS  HEAD  95 

GIRL 
(She  takes  an  old,  round,  iron  kettle  and  fills  it  with 

water  from  the  bucket  by  the  door} 
She's  been  bad  all  day — like  she  was  las'  storm  we 
had  when  she  tried  to  jump  ofFn  the  landin' !     She 
might  try  again.    We  better  look  for  'er. 

(She  hangs  the  kettle  over  the  fire  and  crosses 
to  the  SICK  WOMAN.) 

FISHERMAN 
I  reckon  so.    You  look  out  for  yo'  ma. 

GIRL 

The  oF  'oman's  been  a-doin'  like  she  done  that  day 
when  she  tried  to  run  in  the  surf  with  the  picter. 

FISHERMAN 

Has  she?  (As  though  he  doesn't  quite  understand 
why.)  She  sets  a  lot  o'  store  by  that  picter. 

GIRL 

Fm  kind  o'  skeered  she'll  do  somethin'  bad  some 
day. 

FISHERMAN 

She  ain't  gonna  jump  in  the  surf  no  more.  Not  on 
a  col'  night  like  this  un.  You  take  care  o'  yo'  ma  thar. 
I'll  hunt  th'  other  un.  (He  starts  toward  the  door 
and  opens  it.  The  OLD  WOMAN  is  seen  outside  just 
coming  in.  She  has  been  tall  and  might  have  been 
imperious.  She  speaks  with  a  more  refined  accent  than 
the  others.  She  is  demented  and  they  humor  her.  The 
FISHERMAN  speaks  to  her  from  the  doorway.)  Well, , 


96  OFF  NAGS  HEAD 

we  was  jest  a-cornin'  to  look  fo'  you!     Thought  you 

might  'a  fallen  overboard  or  sumpthin'. 

(He  sits  down  again  by  the  fire.  The  GIRL 
takes  the  OLD  WOMAN'S  shawl  from  her  shoul 
ders  and  hangs  it  by  the  fireplace  to  dry.  The 
OLD  WOMAN  does  not  seem  to  notice  the  others 
but  speaks  as  though  to  herself.) 

OLD  WOMAN 
I've  had  so  much  to  do. 

FISHERMAN 

Well,  now  that's  bad.  You  mustn't  work  too  hard. 
It's  bad  for  you. 

OLD  WOMAN 

It's  better  to  work  than  to  think.  (She  smiles  in  a 
vague  sort  of  way.  Her  eyes  are  expressionless.) 
There  are  times  when  I  think  and  I  hear  things.  They 
keep  calling  me  on  the  boat  and  the  bell  buoy  rings 

GIRL 

(To  the  FISHERMAN) 
Ain't  it  time  the  doctor  was  comin'? 

OLD  WOMAN 

I  see  many  things.  There  is  the  cheery  crowd  on 
the  boat  and  they  keep  calling,  for  all  is  dark  and 
everything  reels — the  light  comes  close  and  all  is  dark 
again.  Listen!  my  baby  boy  calls — the  water  roars 
and  we  all  get  wet.  .  .  .  But  I  still  have  my  work. 
I  must  not  jg've  up — I  still  have  my  child  and  my  pic- 


Elizabeth  Taylor  as  THE  OLD  WOMAN  in  Off  A'ag's  Head  or  The  Bell  £uoyy  a 
tragedy  of  the  North  Carolina  Coast,  by  Dougald  MacMillan. 
THE  OLD  WOMAN:    There  are  times  when  I  think  and  I  hear  things.    They 
keep  calling  me  on  the  boat  and  the  bell  buoy  rings     ....     but  I  still 
have  my  work.    I  must  not  give  up.    I  still  have  my  child  and  my  picture 

to  work  for. 


OFF  NAGS  HEAD  97 

ture  to  work  for.  (She  goes  toward  the  curtained  por 
trait.)  My  dead  boy  and  you — (She  pulls  the  curtain 
aside,  displaying  the  beautiful  old  painting.  Her  voice 
is  more  cheerful  and  less  troubled  as  she  speaks  to  the 
FISHERMAN.)  It  is  a  picture  of  me!  Don't  you  think 
it  is  good  ?  It  was  done  by  the  best  artist.  I  am  taking 
it  to  my  father  in  New  York. 

FISHERMAN 
(Humoring  her) 
Yes,  yes.    You  done  tol'  us  that  a  lot  o'  times. 

GIRL 

(To  the  FISHERMAN) 
I  wonder  why  the  doctor  ain't  come. 

OLD  WOMAN 

(Interrupting  and  still  speaking  to  the  FISHERMAN) 
So  I  have — so  I  have.  Well,  I  must  keep  on  work 
ing.  I've  had  a  message  from  my  father.  (More 
brightly.)  I'm  going  to  leave  soon.  (She  starts 
toward  the  room  at  the  right,  then  turns  to  the  FISHER 
MAN,  speaking  anxiously.)  Take  care  of  her.  Don't 
let  anyone  get  her.  (Speaking  to  the  portrait.)  I  am 
going  to  take  you  with  me  when  I  go  to  New  York  to 
see  my  father.  (She  goes  out,  glancing  back  from  the 
door  at  the  portrait.)  I'm  coming  back  soon. 

FISHERMAN 

She's  so  scared  someun's  gonna  steal  her  picter.  .  .  . 
Is  the  lamp  lit  in  thar? 


98  OFF  NAGS  HEAD 

GIRL 

Yeah.  I  lit  it.  (There  is  a  knock  on  the  door.)  It 
must  be  the  new  doctor. 

(She  opens  the  door  and  the  DOCTOR  comes  in. 
He  is  an  elderly  man,  wearing  a  long  cloak  and 
carrying  a  satchel.  His  manner  is  brisk  and 
cheerful  and  he  is  rather  talkativet  the  old  fam 
ily  doctor  type. 

FISHERMAN 
Come  in. 

DOCTOR 

Thank  you.  I  had  some  trouble  finding  the  house. 
There  is  so  much  mist  you  can't  see  very  well.  I 
believe  this  is  the  worst  storm  I  ever  saw. 

FISHERMAN 

Yeah.  It's  bad.  You  can't  even  see  the  Topsail 
Light. 

DOCTOR 

(Taking  off  his  hat  and  cloak  and  laying  them  on  a 

chair  by  the  fire) 

Do  you  often  have  storms  like  this  one  ?  This  is  my 
first  trip  down  here.  Mr.  Stokes  asked  me  down  to  go 
fishing  with  him. 

FISHERMAN 
This  un  is  right  bad. 

DOCTOR 
Now,  where  is  the  sick  woman? 


OFF  NAGS  HEAD  99 

FISHERMAN 
(Pointing  to  the  bed) 
Here. 

DOCTOR 
Oh,  yes!    Your  wife? 

FISHERMAN 
Yes,  suh. 

DOCTOR 

(Sitting  by  the  bed) 
How  do  you  feel? 

(The  SICK  WOMAN  moans.) 

FISHERMAN 

She  don'  say  nothin'.     She's  got  a  misery  in  her 
chist. 

DOCTOR 
I  see.    How  long  has  she  been  this  way? 

FISHERMAN 
Since  this  mornin'. 

DOCTOR 
(To  the  GIRL,  who  stands  by  the  door  to  the  next 

room) 
Will  you  bring  me  some  water,  please. 

(She  goes  out.  He  opens  his  satchel  and  takes 
out  a  bottle,  pouring  some  medicine  into  the 
cup  which  the  GiRL  brings  him,  and  gives  it  to 
the  sick  woman  to  drink.  The  FISHERMAN  and 


ioo  OFF  NAGS  HEAD 

the  GIRL  look  on  in  silence.    He  speaks  reas 
suringly.) 

She'll  be  comfortable  in  a  few  minutes.  It  is  not 
serious  this  time,  but  she  must  not  work  too  hard. 

(He  rises  and  crosses  to  the  fireplace  for  his 
cloak.) 

FISHERMAN 

Will  you  set  down  an'  rest  yourself  an'  git  dry?  It's 
a  long  walk  back  to  Stokes's. 

DOCTOR 
Why,  thank  you,  I  believe  I  will. 

(They  sit  before  the  fire  and  light  their  pipes. 
The  GIRL  goes  out.) 

FISHERMAN 
You  ain't  been  here  befo',  Doctor? 

DOCTOR 

No.  This  is  my  first  trip.  I've  always  wanted  to 
come  but  never  had  a  chance  before.  There  are  lots 
of  interestin'  tales  told  about  your  beaches  and  islands 
around  here. 

FISHERMAN 
Yeah.    I  reckon  thar's  a  lot  o*  tales. 

DOCTOR 

Captain  Kidd  is  said  to  have  buried  money  on  every 
island  on  the  coast. 


OFF  NAGS  HEAD  101 

FISHERMAN 

Yes,  suh.  Right  over  thar  on  Haw's  Hammock  my 
pa  dug  up  a  chist. 

DOCTOR 
Was  there  anything  in  it? 

FISHERMAN 
No. 

(He  smiles.) 

DOCTOR 

That's  often  the  way.  (He  laughs,  then  stops  to 
listen  to  the  wind,  which  is  increasing  in  volume  and 
intensity.)  Listen  to  that!  This  would  be  a  good 
night  for  the  land  pirates  that  used  to  be  around  here. 
Did  you  know  any  of  them  ? 

FISHERMAN 
I  don'  know  what  you  mean. 

DOCTOR 

Oh,  is  that  so?  Why,  they  say  there  used  to  be  a 
band  of  men  around  here  that  hung  lights  on  a  horse's 
head  and  drove  the  horse  down  the  beach.  From  a 
distance  it  looked  like  a  ship.  Ships  at  sea  were  often 
fooled  by  it  and  ran  aground.  When  they  did,  the  men 
on  shore  plundered  them  and  killed  the  crew.  That's 
how  Nags  Head  got  its  name. 

FISHERMAN 

(Showing  some  confusion) 
Is  that  right? 


102  OFF  NAGS  HEAD 

DOCTOR 

Why,  you  are  old  enough  to  know  about  that.  I'm 
surprised  that  you  didn't  know  some  of  those  old 
rascals. 

FISHERMAN 
(Turning  away) 
We  don't  talk  much  in  these  parts. 

DOCTOR 

(Becoming  interested  in  his  tale) 
A  very  famous  case,  I  remember — one  that  has  been 
talked  about  for  a  long  time.  I  heard  it  from  my 
mother,  was  that  of  a  boat  named  the  ...  The 
Patriot.  She  was  bound  for  New  York  from  George 
town,  I  believe.  An  illustrious  lady,  Theodosia  Burr, 
was  on  board — the  daughter  of  Aaron  Burr.  The 
boat  disappeared  somewhere  along  this  coast.  That 
was  about  fifty  years  ago,  and  none  of  the  crew  has 
been  heard  of  since.  (The  FISHERMAN  is  silent,  look- 
in?  into  the  fire.  The  DOCTOR  rises.)  Well,  let's 
have  another  look  at  the  patient.  I'll  have  to  get  back 
pretty  soon.  Stokes  gets  me  out  early  these  days  to 
get  the  blue  fish  on  the  right  time  o'  the  tide. 

(He  knocks  out  his  pipe  against  the  chimney 
and  turns  toward  the  bed.  The  FISHERMAN 
rises.  The  OLD  WOMAN  enters  unnoticed, 
crosses  to  the  fireplace  and  stands  there  watch 
ing  the  others.  The  DOCTOR  starts  to  the  bed 
but  stops  suddenly,  astonished.  He  has  seen 
the  portrait!) 
Why,  hello,  what's  that? 


OFF  NAGS  HEAD  103 

FISHERMAN 


What? 


DOCTOR 
The  portrait.    Where  did  it  come  from  ? 

FISHERMAN 

Oh,  we  found  it  on  a  derelict  that  drifted  in  one 
day. 

DOCTOR 

(Becoming  excited) 

Why  that  looks  like  the  picture  that  was  on  The 
Patriot.  I  remember  distinctly,  I  once  saw  a  copy  of 
the  lost  portrait.  It  must  be  the  portrait  of  Theodosia 
Burr! 

(The  OLD  WOMAN  watches  them  intently.) 

FISHERMAN 
Who's  she? 

DOCTOR 

The  woman  that  was  lost.  Where  were  the  crew 
and  passengers  on  the  boat? 

FISHERMAN 

I  don*  recollect  no  people  on  *er.  I  reckon  thar 
wan't  no  people  on  'er. 

DOCTOR 
Where  were  they? 

FISHERMAN 
I  don'  know. 


104  OFF  NAGS  HEAD 

DOCTOR 
Was  the  boat  named  The  Patriot  f 


FISHERMAN 

I  can't  say,  'cause  I  don'  exactly  know.  She  might  'a 
been  The  Patriot  or  she  might  'a  been  the  Mary  Ann — 
I  can't  say. 

(He  has  become  sullen.) 

DOCTOR 
Come,  now.    Tell  me  about  it. 

FISHERMAN 

I  don'  know  no  more.    We  jest  found  it. 
(He  turns  away.) 

DOCTOR 

Then  I  must  have  the  portrait.  I'm  sure  it's  the  key 
to  the  Theodosia  Burr  mystery.  Will  you  sell  it? 

(The  OLD  WOMAN  watches  him,  frightened.) 

FISHERMAN 
(Looking  at  her) 

I  dunno  as  how  we  would.  We  sets  a  lot  o*  store  by 
that  picter. 

DOCTOR 
I'll  pay  you  for  it.     How  much  do  you  want? 

(He  starts  to  take  the  picture  from  the  wall. 
The  OLD  WOMAN,  who  has  been  moving 
toward  it,  seizes  his  arm,  excitedly.) 


OFF  NAGS  HEAD  105 

OLD  WOMAN 

Sell  her !  Sell  my  picture !  She  is  one  of  the  things 
I  work  for — my  dead  boy  and  my  picture.  You  shall 
not  take  them  from  me.  (She  lifts  the  portrait  from 
its  place  and  holds  it  tightly  in  her  arms,  talking  to  it.) 
I  am  taking  you  to  my  father  in  New  York.  He 
wants  it.  (More  wildly,  speaking  to  the  DOCTOR.) 
You  shan't  have  it.  ...  They  shan't  take  you  from 
me.  ...  It  is  all  that  I  have.  I've  been  cruelly 
treated.  My  baby  boy  died.  He  is  out  there.  .  .  . 
(She  points  to  the  sea.)  He  often  calls  me  to  come  to 
him  but  I  must  stay  here,  for  I  still  have  my  picture 
to  work  for. 

(She  turns  away.) 

DOCTOR 
Who  are  you  ? 

OLD  WOMAN 

(Smiling.    She  seems  to  look  at  something  far  away) 
Ah.  ... 

DOCTOR 

Who  are  you?  What  do  you  know  about  the  pic 
ture?  It  must  be  a  portrait  of  Theodosia  Burr! 

OLD  WOMAN 

Burr?  Theodosia  Burr?  (Almost  frenzied  as  she 
suddenly  remembers  her  identity.)  Why,  she's  the 
person  that  I  stand  for !  I've  been  thinking — she  keeps 
talking  to  me.  That's  who  I  stand  for ! 


106  OFF  NAGS  HEAD 

DOCTOR 
What? 

FISHERMAN 
(With  a  significant  nod) 
Don*  mind  her.    She  ain't  right. 

OLD  WOMAN 

I  must  be  going  now.  They  are  tired  of  waiting. 
I've  stayed  here  long  enough.  .  .  .  I'm  coming, 
father. 

(She  starts  to  go  into  the  next  room.) 

DOCTOR 

(Stepping  in  front  of  the  door,  he  speaks  gently) 
Where  are  you  going? 

OLD  WOMAN 

(Turning  back  into  the  room) 

Maybe  the  boat's  fixed  now.  I  wonder  where  the 
others  are. 

DOCTOR 
(Persuasively) 
Yes,  tell  us  where  the  others  are. 

OLD  WOMAN 

Oh,  I  remember.  They're  gone.  They  were  killed. 
Hush,  don't  you  hear  them  .  .  .  listen!  .  .  .  They 
took  all  the  things  on  the  boat,  but  I  have  saved  you. 
(She  clasps  the  picture  closer  and  stares  before  her.) 
It  was  an  awful  storm  like  this  one.  A  false  light,  we 
ran  on  the  beach.  It  was  horrible!  Yes  .  .  .  yes, 
they  were  there — they,  they  killed  them  all ! 


OFF  NAGS  HEAD  107 

DOCTOR 

Yes,  yes!  Don't  get  excited.  We'll  fix  everything 
all  right.  Don't  let  it  worry  you.  Sit  down  and  tell 
us  all  about  it. 

OLD  WOMAN 

(Moving  to  the  right  of  the  room) 
I  am  going  away  very  soon  now.   ...    I  saw  a 
sign  to-day.    I  have  been  sent  for.    They  have  sent  for 
me  to  come  to  see  my  father  in  New  York.     He  has 

been  waiting  so  long.     I  must  go 

(She  goes  out  into  the  adjoining  room,  mutter 
ing.     The  DOCTOR  turns  to  the  FISHERMAN.) 

DOCTOR 
What  do  you  know  about  this? 

FISHERMAN 
Nothin',  I  tol*  you. 

DOCTOR 
How  did  she  get  here  ? 

FISHERMAN 

We  took  'er  in  one  time. 
(He  speaks  sullenly.) 

DOCTOR 

Yes,  but  where  did  she  come  from?  You  know 
more  about  this,  and  you're  going  to  tell  me.  If  you 
don't,  I'll  have  you  arrested  on  suspicion.  You'll  be 
tried  and  maybe  you'll  be  hanged.  Now,  tell  me  what 
you  know. 


io8  OFF  NAGS  HEAD 

FISHERMAN 

Wait — (He   is   beginning    to    be   afraid) — I    don't 
know  nothin',  I  tol'  you. 

DOCTOR 

(  Threateningly  ) 
Yes,  you  do.    Do  you  want  to  get  into  court? 

FISHERMAN 
No!    No! 

DOCTOR 

(Raising  his  voice) 
Then  tell  me  what  you  know  about  it.  I'll 


FISHERMAN 
(Interrupting) 

Be  quiet,  I'll  tell  you.  Don'  make  no  noise  .  .  . 
I  was  a  boy  .  .  .  they  used  to  hang  a  lantern  on  a 
horse  .  .  .  then  when  the  ship  run  aground  they  got 
all  the  stuff  ofFn  'er  .  .  . 

DOCTOR 
Land  pirates!     I  thought  you  knew!     Go  on. 

FISHERMAN 
That's  all. 

DOCTOR 
What  became  of  the  people  on  these  boats  ? 

FISHERMAN 
They  got  drownded. 


OFF  NAGS  HEAD  109 

DOCTOR 
How  ?    Don't  take  so  long. 

FISHERMAN 
Jes'  drownded. 

DOCTOR 
Did  you  kill  them  ? 

FISHERMAN 
No.    They  was  jes'  drownded. 

DOCTOR 

And  where  did  the  old  woman  and  the  portrait 
come  from? 

FISHERMAN 

They  was  on  one  o'  the  boats  an'  we  took  'em  in. 
She  ain't  been  right  in  'er  head  sence.  Her  baby  boy 
died  that  night. 

DOCTOR 

Where  did  she  go?    I  want  to  talk  to  her  again. 
(He  goes  toward  the  door.) 

FISHERMAN 
You  ain't  a-goin'  t' 

DOCTOR 
(Interrupting) 

No,  I  won't  send  you  to  jail.  Go  get  the  old 
woman. 

(He  moves  to  the  fireplace.) 


no  OFF  NAGS  HEAD 

FISHERMAN 

She  went  in  thar.  (He  goes  to  the  door  and  looks 
into  the  next  room.)  She  ain't  in  thar  now. 

DOCTOR 
Then  where  could  she  be? 

FISHERMAN 
I  dunno. 

(The  GIRL  comes  in,  very  much  excited  and 
frightened.  She  enters  by  the  door  at  the  back 
and  as  she  opens  it  the  roar  of  the  surf  and  the 
ringing  of  the  bell  buoy  may  be  heard  mort 
distinctly.) 

GIRL 

I  tried  to  stop  'er,  but  she  jest  went  on!  I  can't 
do  nothin'  with  'er. 

DOCTOR 
What  do  you  mean  ? 

GIRL 

She  run  out  a-huggin'  that  picter.  I  couldn't  stop 
'er.  She  said  she  was  goin'  away! 

FISHERMAN 
Where  did  she  go  ? 

GIRL 

I  dunno.  She's  been  so  bad  all  day,  a-talkin'  'bout 
the  bell  buoy  a-ringin'  for  'er — (She  goes  to  the 
FISHERMAN.)  I'm  skeered  o'  what  she'll  do! 


OFF  NAGS  HEAD  in 

(Above   the   roar   of    the   surf    can   be    heard 
faintly  but  clearly,  a  high-pitched,  distant  cry.) 

DOCTOR 
What's  that? 

FISHERMAN 
I  dunno  .  .  . 


GIRL 

I  wonder  if  it's  .  .  . 

(The  DOCTOR  and  FISHERMAN  go  to  the  door  at 
the  back) 

DOCTOR 
We'd  better  go  look  for  her. 

FISHERMAN 

(As  they  run  out  into  the  darkness  across  the  beach) 
I  hope  she  ain't  .  .  . 

(The  GIRL  stands  in  the  open  door  watching 
them.  The  SICK  WOMAN  moans.  The  roar  of 
the  surf  and  the  ringing  of  the  bell  buoy  are 
heard  more  distinctly.  After  a  moment  the 
FISHERMAN  comes  in,  breathless  and  wild- 
eyed.) 

FISHERMAN 

Gi*  me  the  lantern!     She's  run  in  the  surf  an'  it 
a-bilin'. 


ii2  OFF  NAGS  HEAD 

GIRL 
(Taking    the    lighted    lantern    from    a    nail    by    the 

fireplace) 

She  said  the  bell  was  a-ringin'  for  'er.    ...     Is 
she  ... 

FISHERMAN 

(Takes  the  lantern,  pausing  a  moment  in  the  doorway) 
She's  drownded !    She  done  washed  ashore ! 

(The  FISHERMAN  goes  out  and  the  light  from 
his  lantern  disappears  in  the  night.  As  the 
GlR'L  stands  in  the  doorway  looking  toward  the 
sea,  the  bell  buoy  can  still  be  heard  above  the 
storm.) 


CURTAIN 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES1 

A  Play  of  the  Croatan  Outlaws  of  Robeson  County, 
North  Carolina. 

BY 
PAUL  GREENE 


i  Copyright,  1922,  by  The  Carolina  Playmakers,  Inc.  All  rights 
reserved.  Permission  to  produce  this  play  may  be  secured  by  address 
ing  Frederick  H.  Koch,  Director,  The  Carolina  Playmakers,  Inc., 
Chapel  Hill,  North  Carolina. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

As  originally  produced  at  The  Play-House,  Chapel 
Hill,  North  Carolina,  April  30  and  May  I,  1920. 

CUMBA  LOWRIE,  the  aged  mother  of  the  Lowries, 

Elizabeth  Taylor 

JANE,  her  daughter,  Ruth  Penny 

MAYNO,  Cumba's  daughter-in-law,      Rachel  Freeman 
HENRY  BERRY  LOWRIE,  last  of  the  outlaw  gang, 

Ernest  Nieman 
SCENE:     The   rough   home  of   the   Lowrie   gang   in 

Scuffletown,  a  swampy  region  of  Robeson  County, 

North  Carolina. 
TIME  :    A  night  in  the  winter  of  the  year  1874. 


SCENE 

f^TJHE  kitchen  of  the  Lowrie  home. 

i  The  interior  is  that  of  a  rude  dwelling  built 
-*-  of  rough-hewn  timbers.  At  the  right  front  is 
a  fireplace  in  which  a  fire  is  burning.  Pots  and  pans 
are  hung  around  the  fireplace.  A  rocking  chair  ..is 
drawn  up  in  front  of  the  fire.  At  the  right  rear  is  a 
cupboard.  At  the  centre  rear  a  door  leads  outside. 
Above  it  are  several  fishing  poles  and  a  net  resting  on 
pegs  fitted  into  the  joists.  To  the  rear  at  the  left  is  a 
loom  with  a  piece  of  half-finished  cloth  in  it.  A  door 
in  the  centre  of  the  left  wall  leads  into  an  adjoining 
room.  To  the  right  of  it  is  a  window.  At  the  front  on 
that  side  is  a  chest.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  is  a 
rough,  oblong  eating-table  and  several  home-made 
chairs  with  cowhide  bottoms.  A  spinning-wheel  stands 
at  the  front  left.  On  the  table  is  an  unlighted  candle 
in  a  tin  holder. 

The  play  opens  with  MAYNO  LOWRIE  spinning  at 
the  wheel.  She  stops,  folds  her  hands  aimlessly  across 
her  lap,  and  stares  idly  into  the  fire.  She  is  a  full- 
blooded  Croatan,  about  twenty-five  years  old,  of 
medium  height  with  skin  a  tan  color,  almost  copper, 
prominent  cheek  bones,  short  flat  nose,  and  black  shifty 
eyes.  Her  coarse  raven  hair  is  wound  into  a  knot  at 
the  back  of  her  head.  She  is  dressed  in  a  polka-dot 
calico.  Her  shoes  are  somewhat  heavy  but  comfortable 
117 


u8       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

looking.    Around  her  neck  she  wears  a  string  of  shiny 
glass  beads.    Several  cheap  rings  adorn  her  hands. 

For  a  moment  she  sits  idle,  and  then  begins  to  spin 
lazily,  at  almost  every  revolution  of  the  wheel  stop 
ping  to  glance  at  the  rear  door,  then  at  the  door  to  the 
left,  as  if  expecting  someone  to  enter.  She  listens. 
From  afar  off  comes  the  lone  hoot  of  an  owl.  She  shakes 
her  head  and  starts  the  wheel  going  again.  Then  she 
goes  to  the  fireplace,  turns  the  bread  in  the  spider  and 
with  a  long-handled  spoon  stirs  the  peas  in  the  pot. 
After  this  she  goes  back  to  her  chair  at  the  wheel. 

Three  knocks  are  heard  at  the  rear  door.  MAYNO 
hurries  to  remove  the  bar.  JANE  LOWRIE  enters  with 
a  bundle  under  her  arm.  She  throws  the  bundle  on 
the  table,  takes  off  her  bonnet  and  cape  and  hangs  them 
on  a  peg  near  the  door  at  the  left.  MAYNO  goes  to  the 
bundle,  stares  at  it  half  curiously  and  fearfully.  JANE 
comes  to  the  fire  without  speaking.  She  is  a  tall 
Croatan  girl,  dressed  more  plainly  than  MAYNO  in  a 
dress  of  homespun,  with  no  ornaments.  Her  shoes  are 
covered  with  mud.  She  is  about  twenty  years  old,  with 
heavy  black  hair,  light  tan-colored  skin,  and  regular 
features.  Her  face  is  more  open  and  intelligent  than 
MAYNO'S.  Her  whole  figure  expresses  weariness.  She 
looks  anxoiusly  at  the  door  of  the  adjoining  room,  then 
turns  to  MAYNO. 

JANB 

Has  she  asked  for  me  ? 

MAYNO 
Not  but  once.     I  tol'  her  you'd  stepped  over  to 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES       119 

Pate's  for  a  little  flour,  and  she  seemed  to  pearten  up 
at  that.  Said  mebbe  they'd  be  a  letter  from  the  boys 
'way  yander. 

(She  smiles  scornfully.  Still  standing  at  the 
table,  she  looks  at  the  package.  CUMBA' s  voice 
is  heard  calling  from  the  room  at  the  left.) 

CUMBA 
Jane,  Jane,  is  that  ye? 

JANE 

(Going  to  the  door  at  the  left) 
Yes,  muh,  I'm  jes'  back  from  Pate's  with  the  flour. 

CUMBA 
All  right,  honey. 

(JANE  goes  into  the  room.  Their  voices  can 
be  heard  indistinctly.  MAYNO  looks  at  the 
package,  reaches  and  touches  it.  Then  she  tears 
a  hole  in  the  paper,  peers  at  it  intently  and 
draws  away.  JANE  comes  back.) 

JANE 

Mayno,  they're  .  .  .  his'n! 

MAYNO 
Whose  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  they  must  he  his'n. 

JANE 

(Lighting  a  candle  and  placing  it  on  the  table) 
Yes,  Mayno,  they's  Steve's  all  right. 


120       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

MAYNO 
How'd  you  git  'em,  chile? 

JANE 

I  got  'em  from  the  sheriff. 

MAYNO 

And  I  thought  you  were  goin'  to  see  Henry  Berry 
'bout  Steve's  money  and  find  where  they  put  'im. 

(She  opens  the  package  and  takes  out  a  coat,  a 
pair  of  trousers,  and  a  black  felt  hat.  The  gar- 
ments  are  slashed  and  stiff  with  blood.) 

JANE 

I  did— two  hours  proguing  down  through  the  black 
swamps  an'  the  bramble  br'ars,  and  when  I  foun'  Henry 
Berry  he  said  them  sher'frs  what  killed  Steve  got  his 
money,  and  as  for  where  they  put  'im,  nobody  knows. 
(CuMBA  is  heard  groaning  as  she  turns  in  her  bed. 
JANE  lowers  her  voice.)  And  then  I  went  to  the 
sheriff  for  his  clothes.  I  knowed  that  some  day  when 
she—  (Nodding  to  the  room  at  the  left) —finds  it  out 
she'll  be  wantin'  his  clothes,  them  she  made  with  her 
own  hands  like  th'  others.  And  the  sheriff  wouldn't 
tell  me  where  they  buried  'im. 

MAYNO 

Took  his  money,  did  they?  That's  the  way  with 
them  white  folks.  They  do  all  they  kin  agin'  us  poor 
Croatons,  'cause  we's  jes'  injuns,  they  says — though  we 
knows  better. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES        121 

JANE 

They  don't  hold  nothin'  agin'  us;  hit's  agin'  the 
boys. 

MAYNO 

They  killed  yo*  daddy  and  William  and  Tom  and 
Steve  for  being  robbers  and  cut-throats  and  they  rob 
bers  and  cut-throats  theyselves.  (Fiercely.)  And  me 
needing  new  dresses  and  the  like.  But  they's  one  left 
they  won't  git,  the  last  an'  best  of  'em  all.  The  day 
they  lays  Henry  Berry  cold  they'll  be  more  of  'em 
got  than  has  been. 

JANE 

(Wearily) 

Hush,  Mayno;  with  your  jawing  you'd  wake  the 
dead.  She'll  hear  you. 

MAYNO 

(Throwing  down  the  clothes  and  coming  to  the  fire) 
Well,  why  you  want  to  keep  pushing  trouble  from 
her?  What's  the  good  o'  it?  She'll  find  it  out  some 
how.  She's  suffered  now  'til  you  cain't  hurt  her  no 
more.  And  ain't  I  suffered  too,  with  my  man  dead  on 
me  ?  What  call  has  she  got  to  ... 

JANE 

No,  we  ain't  a-goin'  to  tell  her  now.  She  ain't  got 
much  longer,  and  let  her  keep  on  b'lieving  Steve  and 
Henry  Berry's  safe  in  Georgy.  No,  they  ain't  no  use 
o'  letting  her  on  to  it  now. 

(JANE  sits  at  the  spinning-wheel.) 


122        THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

MAYNO 

(Vehemently) 

Ain't  Henry  Berry  going  to  try  to  git  them  sher'fEs 
back  for  killing  Steve?  If  I's  a  outlaw  like  him  I'd 
a  done  paid  'em.  And  he'll  pay  'em,  too!  He's  the 
best  o'  the  Lowries  and  he'll  'venge  them  that's  been 
murdered  in  cold  blood  like  Steve  and  the  rest. 

JANE 

No,  Mayno,  he  won't  nuther.  His  time's  drawin' 
nigh.  He  knows  it.  They're  settin'  for  him  every 
where.  They's  men  watchin'  this  house  to-night.  I 
seen  it  in  his  face  to-day  that  he's  layin'  down.  He 
was  wrong  from  the  first.  He  knows  it  now. 

MAYNO 

What's  that! 

JANE 

Yes,  he's  a-quittin',  but  if  them  sheriffs  hadn't  agged 
him  on  ten  years  ago  when  he  wanted  to  quit  and  be 
quiet  he'd  a  been  livin'  in  peace  here  to-night.  But 
it's  too  late  now.  Too  many  men's  been  killed.  And 
he's  putting  up  his  guns  at  the  last.  They'll  git  him 
'fore  many  days.  ...  He  tol'  me  so. 

MAYNO 

You're  a-lyin',  gal.  You  know  he's  goin'  to  scorch 
'em  with  his  spite  and  bring  'em  down  for  Steve,  him 
as  was  the  strappingest  man  o'  the  gang.  It  ain't  his 
way  to  be  a-backing  down  and  not  pay  'em. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES        123 

JANE 

No,  he  ain't.  He's  a-puttin'  it  by,  I  tell  you. 
They'll  ketch  him  'fore  long. 

MAYNO 

Then  what  you  goin*  to  do  'bout  her  in  there  ?  You 
cain't  keep  on  a-foolin'  her  forever  with  your  letters 
and  money  and  mess  from  Georgy. 

JANE 

Well,  we  c'n  fool  'er  till  she  gits  better,  cain't  we? 
And  if  she  don't  git  better,  then  she'll  go  out  happier, 
won't  she  ...  believin'  Steve  and  Henry  Berry's  safe 
and  livin'  as  they  ought — (She  rises  and  goes  to  the 
cupboard) — she  so  old  and  fearful  at  the  door  hinge 
skreaking  and  the  red  rooster  crowing  a-'fore  the  glim 
o'  dawn,  you  know,  Mayno. 

(She  brings  some  butter  and  the  molasses  pot 
from  the  cupboard,  takes  the  spider  from  the 
fire  and  puts  supper  on  the  table.) 

MAYNO 

Well,  go  on  if  you  will,  but  you  cain't  keep  it  up 
much  longer.  It'll  be  jes'  like  I  said.  Henry  Berry'll 
come  broozin*  around  some  night.  Sposcn  so? 

JANE 

(Frightened) 

You  reckon  he'd  do  that.  .  .  .  No  he  couldn't.  I 
tol'  him  about  how  it  was  with  her,  and  besides  he 
knows  the  house  is  watched. 


124       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

MAYNO 

(Shaking  her  head) 

I  dunno.  He  mought.  You  know  the  time  he 
slipped  through  a  whole  passel  o'  them  sher'ffs  jes'  to 
come  here  and  git  a  shirt  she'd  made  'im?  And  by 
this  time  he  must  be  a-wantin'  to  see  her  powerful  bad. 

JANE 

( Terrified) 

You  reckon  he  will?  No,  he  won't!  He  couldn't 
do  that.  (Old  CUMBA  is  heard  calling  JANE.)  Put 
them  things  in  the  sack  with  th'  others,  Mayno,  and 
put  'em  in  the  bottom,  too.  You  c'n  be  fixin'  her  sup 
per  while  I  ten'  to  'er.  (She  goes  into  the  rear  room. 
MAYNO  takes  up  the  clothes,  opens  the  chest  at  the 
left,  pulls  out  a  bulky  burlap  sack  and  crams  the 
trousers,  shirt  and  hat  into  it.  Shutting  the  chest,  she 
goes  to  the  cupboard,  takes  out  three  plates  and  some 
knives  and  forks  and  lays  them  on  the  table.  Then 
she  begins  preparing  CUMBA'S  supper  on  a  plate.  JANE 
comes  to  the  door  and  speaks.)  You  needn't  bring  her 
supper  in  here,  Mayno,  she's  going  to  git  up,  she  says. 
(JANE  goes  back  into  the  room.  MAYNO  shrugs  her 
shoulders,  sits  down  and  begins  to  eat.  JANE  comes 
in  supporting  old  CUMBA.  She  speaks  to  MAYNO.) 
Fix  her  chair  by  the  fire,  Mayno. 

MAYNO 

(Rising  reluctantly  from  the  table) 
Gimme  time,  cain't  you? 

(She  pulls  CUMBA'S  chair  nearer  to  the  fire. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES        125 

CUMBA  is  a  bent,  emaciated  old  woman,  about 
seventy  years  of  age.  Her  face  is  scarred  with 
suffering.  She  is  a  mixture  of  Negro  and  Por 
tugese,  somewhat  darker  than  JANE.  She  is 
very  feeble  and  shakes  with  palsy.) 

CUMBA 

(Pausing,  as  JANE  leads  her  to  the  fire) 
Did  you  say  they  warn't  nary  letter  from  the  boys 
'  way  out  thar  ? 

JANE 
(Looking  at   MAYNO  as  she  settles   CUMBA  in   her 

chair ) 

No'm,  there  warn't  no  letter  this  time,  but  they'll  be 
one  soon.  You  see  they  cain't  write  often,  not  yit. 
They  mought  be  ketched  on  account  of  it.  'Tain't 
quite  time  for  another'n  yit. 

CUMBA 

Mebbe  so,  mebbe  so.  But  I  thought  they  mought 
'a  been  one.  How  long  is  it  they  been  out  thar,  chile? 


JANE 

(Placing  the  plate  of  food  on  her  lap) 
Two  months  now,  muh.    And  they's  livin'  straight 
and  'spectable,  too.    And  'twon't  be  long  'fore  the  big 
Governor'll  pardon  'em,  and  they'll  come  back  to  you, 
and  you'll  be  happy  agin. 


126       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

CUMBA 
(Brightening) 

And  I'll  be  at  the  loom  then,  a-weavin'  'em  the  good 
shirts,  won't  I  ?  And  they'll  be  working  in  the  fields 
and  comin'  home  to  a  good  dinner,  won't  they?  And 
at  night  Henry  Berry'll  be  a-playin'  of  his  banjo  like 
old  times,  won't  he?  (She  stops  suddenly.  All  the 
brightness  goes  out  of  her  face.  She  lets  her  knife  fall 
to  her  plate.)  But  they  won't  be  but  two  of  'em,  will 
there,  Janie?  Jes'  two.  When  thar  was  Allen,  my 
old  man — they  shot  'im  over  thar  in  the  corner.  (She 
turns  and  points.)  They's  a  blood  spot  thar  now. 
Then  thar  was  Willie  and  Tom.  And  they  ain't  no 
tellin'  how  they  put  'im  away,  chile  .  .  .  chile  .  .  . 

JANE 

Now,  muh,  you  mustn't  do  that! — Eat  your  supper. 
You  got  to  git  well,  time  Steve  and  Henry  Berry  gits 
back.  They's  allus  grief  with  the  children  going,  but 
you  still  got  two  of  the  boys  and  me. 

(JANE  butters  a  piece  of  bread  and  hands  it 
to  her.) 

CUMBA 

Mebbe  so,  mebbe  so,  chile.  But  .  .  .  (She  stops.) 
Whar's  that  letter  that  come  from  the  boys  last  month  ? 
I  wants  it  read  agin. 

JANE 

But,  muh,  you  got  to  eat.  I'll  read  it  after  while. 
Let  me  fry  you  a  egg. 

(MAYNO  leaves  the  table  and  begins  spinning  at 
the  wheel.) 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES       127 

CUMBA 

I  ain't  hongry,  chile.  Take  them  thar  rations  and 
put  'em  back  and  read  me  the  letter.  It's  enough  to 
hear  it  ...  hearin'  that  the  last  of  my  boys  is  safe 
and  ca'm  and  livin'  once  more  as  I'd  lak  'em  to. 

JANE 
Well,  I'll  git  it  then. 

(She  goes,  searches  in  the  cupboard,  and  at  last 
draws  out  a  greasy  envelope.  From  this  she 
takes  a  sheet  of  paper  and  comes  back  to  old 
CUMBA.) 

CUMBA 

Read  it,  honey.  It's  the  blessin'  of  the  Lord  that  I's 
spared  to  learn  that  two  o'  my  boys  is  shet  of  sin.  But 
they's  been  a  heap  o'  blood  spilt,  chile,  a  heap  o'  blood 
spilt  .  .  .  but  they's  been  more  tears  spilt  by  they  ol' 
mammy,  too,  and  mebbe  at  last  they'll  ketch  a  chance 
to  come  back  to  her.  Read  it,  chile. 

JANE 

(Glancing  at  MAYNO  and  then  looking  at  the  letter) 
They  says  they's  a-gitting  along  well  and  makin' 
money  an'  .   .   . 

CUMBA 
Don't  read  it  like  that.    Read  what  they  says ! 

JANE 
Well,  I'll  read  it  then. 

(She  pretends  to  read.) 


128       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

"Dear  Mammy: 

"We  writes  to  let  you  know  we're  in  Qeorgy  at  last, 
safe  an'  sound.  We're  both  workin'  in  a  store  an' 
makin'  good  money.  They  ain't  nobody  knows  what 
we  done  back  there,  an'  the  people  is  good  to  us. 
'Twon't  be  long  'fore  the  Governor'll  pardon  us,  and 
we  can  come  back  and  take  care  o'  you. 
"Your  loving  sons, 

"Steve  and  Henry  Berry." 

CUMBA 

You  left  out  somethin',  child.  Don't  you  know  they 
sent  some  money  with  the  letter  and  they  spoke 
about  it. 

JANE 

(Confused) 

Yes'm,  that's  right.  I  forgot  it.  It's  on  the  other 
side,  mammy.  Yes'm,  here  it  is.  It  says,  "We're 
sendin'  you  twenty  dollars  to  buy  meat  and  flour  with." 

CUMBA 

Good  boys  they  is,  they  ain't  never  meant  no  harm. 
Willie  and  Tom  was  jes'  that-a-way.  Every  cent  they 
used  to  make  a-hoein'  cbtton  'roun'  they'd  give  it  to 
they  ol'  mammy,  an'  the  good  Lord  knows  whar  they's 
sleepin'  to-night  ...  but  they's  two  spared  me  an'  I 
hadn't  ought  to  complain,  I  reckon.  Is  the  money  all 
gone,  Janie  ? 

JANE 

No'm,  there's  some  left  yit,  and  they'll  be  sending 
more  in  the  next  letter. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES        129 

(She  puts  the  letter  back  into  the  cupboard  and 
begins  cleaning  up  the  dishes.  Old  CUMBA 
leans  back  in  her  chair,  gazing  into  the  fire.  The 
hooting  of  an  owl  is  heard.  She  stirs  uneasily 
in  her  chair.  MAYNO  and  JANE  stop  their 
work  and  listen.  They  both  look  at  each  other 
and  then  glance  at  old  CUMBA,  who  is  trem 
bling  and  gripping  the  arms  of  her  chair.  JANE 
begins  to  rattle  the  dishes.  MAYNO  spins 
rapidly.) 

CUMBA 

(Turning  to  JANE) 
Ain't  that  a  owl  squeechin',  Jane? 

JANE 

(Looking  at  MAYNO) 
What?  ...  I  ...  I  don't  hear  nothin'. 
(The  hooting  is  heard  again.) 

CUMBA 
Ain't  that  it  agin? 

MAYNO 

Aw,  it's  nothin'  but  that  oP  swamp  owl.    He  hollers 
'most  every  night.    Don't  take  on  'bout  it. 
(She  shivers  and  stirs  the  fire.) 

CUMBA 

(Shrilly) 

It  sounds  like  some  o'  my  boys  a-makin'  o'  they  sig 
nals  down  thar  in  the  night;  but  'tain't  them  though. 


i3o       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

The  only  two  that's  left  is  a  long  ways  off,  and  mebbe 
won't  never  come  back. 

JANE 

Now,  they  will  too. 

CUMBA 

'Way  back  yonder  I  loved  to  see  'em  'round  me 
here,  the  warm  fire  a-burnin'  and  Allen  thar  a-working 
at  his  gear,  and  them  that  was  little  uns  then  a-playing 
on  the  floor.  I  didn't  mind  it  them  times.  (Her 
voice  grows  shriller.)  And  now  where  are  they?  My 
ol'  man  and  all  the  house  gone  from  me. 

MAYNO 

Aw,  Ma  Lowrie,  what's  the  use  of  all  them  carry- 
ing-ons?  You  reckon  you're  the  only  one  that's  had 
trouble  in  this  world  ? 

CUMBA 

And  when  the  rain  and  the  wind  come  raring  down 
and  the  cypress  trees  is  moanin'  in  the  dark  and  the 
owls  a-honing  through  the  night,  I  think  on  them  three 
lyin'  dead  thar  in  the  woods  and  the  water  washin'  over 
them,  and  me  with  nothin'  but  their  clothes  to  remem 
ber  on  and  show  for  them  I  was  prided  for. 

(Again  the  hooting  of  the  owl  is  heard.  JANE 
leaves  the  dishes  suddenly  and  comes  to  the  fire, 
lays  more  wood  on,  furtively  wiping  the  tears 
from  her  eyes.  CUMBA  still  looks  in  the  fire.) 


JANE 
It's  time  for  you  to  lay  down  now. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES        131 

CUMBA 

(Without  noticing  her) 

At  times  in  the  dark  night  I  dream  on  'em  and  they 
ain't  nothin'  happened  and  it's  all  like  it  used  to  be, 
and  then  I  wake  a-callin',  and  they  don't  answer,  for 
they're  sleepin'  out  naked  in  the  cold. 

MAYNO 

(Shrugging  her  shoulders) 

Jes'  listen  at  her! — Ma  Lowrie,  cain't  you  be  quiet 
a  bit?  (Lowering  her  voice.)  Lord,  you're  as 
techous  as  an  old  hen ! 

JANE 

(Half  sobbing) 

What  makes  you  carry  on  like  that  ?  It  cain't  do  no 
good.  Ain't  Henry  Berry  toF  you  a  hundred  times 
that  he's  buried  all  three  of  'em  down  thar  in  the 
swamp.  And  he's  skeered  to  tell  the  place  for  fear 
them  sher'ffs'll  dig  'em  up  and  git  the  money  for  'em. 
Don't  take  on  so.  They's  put  away  with  praying  like 
any  Christians  ought  to  be,  and  you'd  better  lie  down 
now. 

(She  looks  at  MAYNO.) 

CUMBA 

Yes,  they  mought  be  buried  in  the  swamp  down  thar, 
and  when  it  rains  the  river  rises  and  washes  over  'em, 
them  that  used  to  pull  at  my  dress  when  I  was  at  the 
wash —  But  Old  Master  sends  the  sun  and  the  rain, 
and  the  Book  says  we  ought  to  be  satisfied.  ( The  owl's 


132       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

hoot  is  heard  again.  CUMBA  looks  at  the  door  and 
shivers.)  Help  me  in  now,  chile.  I  didn't  mean  to 
say  all  that,  but  I'm  done.  An'  ol'  woman's  heart  is  a 
foolish  thing  ...  a  foolish  thing.  .  .  . 

(JANE  helps  her  into  the  room  at  the  left.  A 
moment  later  she  reappears.  She  looks  at 

MAYNO  inquisitively.) 

i 

MAYNO 
Sounded  like  Henry  Berry's  hootin',  didn't  it? 

JANE 

Yes,  I'm  afraid  it's  him,  after  all  I  tol'  him.  Oh, 
what  makes  him  do  it?  But  it's  like  I  said.  He's 
givin'  in  now,  he's  quittin'  at  the  last.  And  he's  set 
on  seein'  her  once  more  or  it's  some  of  his  quair  no 
tions,  somethin'  he's  wrapped  up  in  gittin'. 

(Three  knocks  are  heard  at  the  door.  JANE 
runs  and  lifts  the  heavy  bar,  and  HENRY  BERRY 
LOWRIE  walks  in.) 

MAYNO 
Henry  Berry! 

(He  starts  to  speak  but  JANE  lays  her  finger  on 
her  lips  and  leads  him  towards  the  fire.  He 
takes  off  his  hat  and  bows  wearily  to  MAYNO. 
He  is  a  man  of  handsome  personal  appear 
ance.  The  color  of  his  skin  is  a  mixed  white 
and  yellowish  brown,  almost  copper-colored. 
Just  below  his  left  eye  is  a  crescent-shaped  scar. 
Despite  the  look  of  weariness,  his  countenance  is 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES        133 

expressive  in  a  high  degree  of  firmness  and  cour 
age.  His  forehead  is  broad  and  high,  his  eyes 
large  and  keen,  his  hair  thick  and  inclined  to 
curl.  He  wears  a  black  beard.  From  appear 
ances  he  is  about  twenty-six  years  of  age,  a  little 
above  medium  height,  well-knit,  broad-shoul 
dered,  and  well-proportioned  throughout.  He 
wears  a  broad,  black  felt  hat,  brown  corduroy 
coat,  dark  woolen  trousers,  and  calf-skin  boots. 
In  a  belt  around  his  waist  he  carries  two  pistols. 
From  this  belt  a  strap  passes  upward  and  sup 
ports  behind  a  repeating  rifle.  He  also  carries 
a  long-bladed  knife  stuck  in  his  belt.  He  takes 
a  seat  at  the  fire,  putting  his  rifle  in  the  corner, 
but  retaining  his  other  arms.  JANE  runs  to  the 
door  at  the  rear  and  makes  sure  that  it  is  closed 
tight.  Then  she  hurries  to  HENRY  BERRY. 

JANE 

Brother,    what    made    you    do    it!     The    house    is 
watched  an'  .   .   . 

HENRY  BERRY 

I  know  it,  Sis,  but  I  had  to  come.    I'm  quittin'  .  .  . 
to-night.    Is  she  asleep  ? 

(He  jerks  his  head  towards  the  room  at  the 
left.) 

JANE 

No,  I've  jes*  helped  her  in.    That's  the  reason  we 
couldn't  make  no  sign  with  the  light. 


134       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

HENRY  BERRY 

I  couldn't  figure  what  the  trouble  was.  I  hooted  'til 
my  head  hurt.  But  I  was  goin'  to  risk  it  anyhow. 

JANE 

What'll  she  think  if  she  sees  you !  Oh,  hurry  and  go 
away! 

HENRY  BERRY 

Naw,  I  got  to  see  her.  After  to-night  'twon't  mat 
ter.  Bring  me  a  bite  to  eat,  Sis.  How  is  she  ? 

MAYNO 
I  reckon  she's  on  the  mend.  .   .   . 

JANE 

(Frightened) 

Will  they  git  you  to-night?  What  do  you  mean  by 
sich  talk? 

HENRY  BERRY 

Never  mind.  They'll  git  me  ...  when  I'm  dead, 
all  right,  no  doubt  o'  that.  I'm  taking  the  gear  off  at 
last.  The  ol'  man's  gone,  Willie  and  Tom's  gone,  and 
they  got  Steve  last  week,  and  I'm  the  last  o'  the  gang. 
I'm  tired,  damned  tired  of  it  all,  Sis. 

JANE 

But  I  tell  you,  you  cain't  give  up  like  that.  You 
got  to  keep  on  fightin'  till  you  git  a  chance  to  git  away ! 

HENRY  BERRY 
Naw,  it's  too  late  now.    If  they'd  'a  let  me,  I'd  'a 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES        135 

lived  straight,  but  after  the  first  trouble  I  had  to  keep 
killin'  to  live.  Well,  I'm  done  killin',  now  .  .  .  'cept 
one  man,  and  they  ain't  no  use  of  you  knowin'  who  it 
is.  You'll  know  soon  enough.  One  man  can't  stand 
it  allus,  and  they'll  scrush  him  at  the  last. 

(JANE  sits  at  her  chair  weeping  softly.    HENRY 
BERRY  lays  his  hand  gently  on  her  head.     Try 
ing  to  appear  cheerful,  he  turns  to  MAYNO.) 
Mayno,  bring  me  a  bite  to  eat. 

(He  sits  at  the  table,  facing  the  front.  MAYNO 
gets  a  plate  of  food  and  puts  it  before  him.  He 
eats  hungrily.) 

MAYNO 

Whar'd  they  put  'im,  Henry  Berry? 

HENRY  BERRY 

I  ain't  been  able  to  find  out,  Mayno.  Piled  him  in 
some  of  their  rotten  graveyards,  I  reckon,  when  he 
loved  to  run  the  woods  with  th'  other  wild  things  like 
him. 

MAYNO 

What'd  they  do  with  his  money? 

HENRY  BERRY 

I  dunno.  Got  that,  too,  I  reckon.  But  you  needn't 
to  worry.  Jane!  (JANE  looks  up.)  Here,  I've  fixed 
for  you-all.  Here's  money  enough  to  last  you  three 
after  I'm  gone. 

(He  stops  eating  and  pulls  a  bag  of  money  out 
of  his  pocket.) 


136       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

JANE 
But,  brother  .   .   . 

HENRY  BERRY 

Never  mind,  take  it  and  take  care  o'  her.  It's  the 
last  thing  I  c'n  do  for  her  and  you. 

JANE 
But  she  won't  use  it,  knowin'  how  you  come  by  it. 

HENRY  BERRY 
She  won't  ? 

JANE 

No,  she  won't.  She'll  starve  first,  and  you  know  it. 
You  know  all  them  fixin's  you  sent  her.  She  give  'em 
all  away,  the  stove  and  the  stool  with  three  legs  and 
everything.  And  when  she  thought  you  and  Steve  was 
livin'  straight  in  Georgy,  she  give  away  that  gold  chain 
you  brung  her.  She's  feared  you  hadn't  got  it  honest. 

HENRY  BERRY 

(Softly) 

Yes,  yes,  she's  allus  been  too  good  fer  us.  (He  leaves 
the  table  and  takes  a  seat  near  the  fire.)  Still  that 
chain  was  bought  honest.  .  .  .  But  you  three's  got  to 
live,  ain't  ye?  Take  that  money,  and  don't  tell  'er. 
(JANE  puts  the  money  in  the  chest.)  Mayno,  is  my  ol' 
banjo  still  here? 

MAYNO 

Yeah,  in  thar. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES        137 

HENRY  BERRY 

I  been  wantin'  to  knock  her  a  little  for  a  long  time. 
And  I  want  to  knock  her  a  little  the  las'  night. 

JANE 

The  las'  night!     It  ain't  the  las'  night!     If  you'd 
go  now  you'd  git  away.     Why  do  you  talk  like  that? 
(She  is  interrupted  by  a  loud  cry.    Old  CUMBA 
stands  in  the  door  at  the  rear.) 

CUMBA 

It's  you,  it's  you,  Henry  Berry!  Come  back  from 
Georgy.  I  knowed  you'd  come.  I  knowed.  .  .  . 
(She  totters  to  HENRY  BERRY  and  throws  her  arms 
around  him.  He  kisses  her  on  the  forehead.  Her  look 
is  one  of  unmingled  joy.  Suddenly  the  hurt  look  comes 
back  into  her  face.)  Why  you  come  back  a-wearin'  of 
your  guns? 

HENRY  BERRY 
(Helping  her  to  the  fire) 

I'm  just  wearin'  'em.  I  didn't  want  to  be  ketched 
empty.  I'm  leavin'  in  a  few  minutes  and  le's  us  enjoy 
ourselves,  and  forgit  about  Georgy. 

CUMBA 
No,  they's  somethin'  wrong.    Whar's  Steve? 

HENRY  BERRY 

(Looking  at  MAYNO  and  JANE) 
He's  waitin'  for  me  ...  out  thar. 
(He  points  toward  the  swamp.) 


138       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

CUMBA 

Why  didn't  he  come  in  wid  you?  Is  he  well  and 
strong?  How  I'd  love  to  see  'im! 

HENRY  BERRY 

One  of  us  had  to  wait  for  th'  othern't,  and  he's  all 
right.  How  you  feelin',  mammy?  Is  your  haid  bet 
ter  now? 

CUMBA 

Yes,  I'm  gittin'  better  now.  I  wants  to  git  well  time 
you  and  Steve  comes  home  for  good.  (Stroking  his 
hand.)  Has  the  Gov'nor  pardoned  ye  already? 

HENRY  BERRY 

No,  mammy,  not  jest  yit.  But  it'll  be  all  right 
soon.  .  .  .  Steve  and  me's  jest  passin'  through.  .  .  . 
Now  le's  us  enjoy  ourselves.  I  got  to  be  movin'  in  a 
minute.  Steve's  waiting  for  me.  .  .  .  Mebbe  we'll 
talk  about  Georgy  some  other  time.  .  .  .  Mayno,  bring 
me  my  ol'  music  box. 

CUMBA 
Yes,  yes,  git  it  and  let  'im  play  for  me. 

(MAYNO  brings  the  banjo  from  the  next  room. 
HENRY  BERRY  tunes  it.  CUMBA  sits  gazing  in 
the  fire,  a  troubled  look  on  her  face.) 

HENRY  BERRY 

You  want  me  to  play  'bout  Job's  Coffin  hanging  in 
the  sky?  (Strangely.)  That  was  Steve's  piece. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES       139 

JANE 

(Nervously) 

Don't,  don't  play  that.    It's  too  lonesome. 
(She  shivers.) 


HENRY  BERRY 

What  piece  you  want  me  to  play? 

(To  CUMBA.  She  makes  no  reply.  HENRY 
BERRY  looks  at  her.  He  strums  several  bars, 
his  face  gradually  losing  its  tense  expression.) 

What  you  want  me  to  play,  muh? 


CUMBA 
Play  anything.    Some  o'  the  ol'  pieces. 

HENRY  BERRY 
I'll  play  that  piece  'bout  poor  John  Hardy. 

(He  plays  and  sings  three  stanzas  of  the  ballad 
"John  Hardy/') 


^  \?    7     7?     r     ^ 

John      Hard  -  y         was        a        mean         and 


dis  per      .      a  ted  man,  He 


i4o       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 


tot      -       ed  two  guns  ev      .       'ry 


day.        He         shot      him  -  self        a       man        in 


New  Or      -       leans—  Town  John 


Hard  -  y      nev .  er   lied      to     his      guns,  poor      boy. 

He's  been  to  the  east  and  he's  been  to  the  west 
And  he's  been  this  wide  world  round, 
He's  been  to  the  river  an'  been  baptized, 
An'  he's  been  on  his  hanging  ground,  poor  boy. 

John  Hardy's  father  was  standing  by, 
Saying,  " Johnnie,  what  have  you  done?" 
He  murdered  a  man  in  the  same  ol'  town, 
You  ought  a-seed  him  a-using  of  his  guns,  poor  boy. 
(He  stops  and  gazes  pensively  before  him.) 

CUMBA 

(Looking  anxiously  at  HENRY  BERRY) 
What's  the  matter,  son  ?    You  don't  play  it  like  you 
used  to. 


- 


<   fc  0 

S-S 

^  8      -2 


32      3 

£6      -ti 


r0.--  - 
U    1>    3 


N    W 


l 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES        141 

HENRY  BERRY 

It  ain't  nothing.    I'll  play  yo'  other  piece  now,  that 
Florelly  song. 

CUMBA 
Yes,  play  it.    Allen  allus  said  'twas  a  good  piece. 

HENRY  BERRY 


The  Fair  Florella 
An  Old  Ballad 


~=         •  " 


Down     by      yon       weep  .  ing       wil .  low, 


'  <J   J    '       .  J 


Where     ros  -  es     so          sweet  -  ly          bloom, 


There    sleeps  the       fair       Flo    .    rel  -  la, 


J    '  J     '    '  U   ^    '  J. 

So        si  *   lent        lo_    the         tomb. 


142       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

She  died  not  broken  hearted, 
No  sickness  her  befell, 
But  in  one  moment  parted 
From  all  she  loved  so  well. 

Down  on  her  knees  before  him, 
She  begged  'im  for  her  life, 
But  deep  into  her  bosom 
He  plunged  the  fatal  knife. 

(Before  the  last  verse  ends,  owl  hoots  are  heard 
outside.  HENRY  BERRY  stops,  listening.  The 
banjo  slips  through  his  hands  to  the  floor.  All 
three  look  at  him  questioningly.) 

CUMBA 
What  is  it,  boy  ?    Don't  look  that-a-way. 

(Again  the  hooting  of  an  owl  is  heard.  HENRY 
BERRY  rises  to  his  feet,  takes  his  rifle  from  the 
chimney  corner  and  stands  an  instant  tensely 
silent.  Slowly  his  defensive  attitude  changes 
to  one  of  despair.  They  watch  him  anxiously 
as  he  comes  back  to  his  former  place  in  the  room, 
looks  down  at  his  banjo,  makes  a  move  as  if  to 
pick  it  up,  then  turns  to  CUMBA.) 

HENRY  BERRY 

Well,  I'm  goin'.     I've  sorto'  tried  to  be  a  fatten  boy 
to  you,  but  I  reckon  I  made  poor  outs  at  it. 

(He  bends  and  kisses  her.  She  rises  and  clings 
to  him.) 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES        143 

CUMBA 

You  ain't  a-goin'  air  ye?     It'll  be  for  the  las'  time 
and  I  know  it. 

HENRY  BERRY 

Yes'm,  I  got  to  go.    Didn't  you  hear  Steve's  signal? 
He's  a-waitin'. 

(Making  an  indefinite  motion  with  his  hand 
toward  the  swamp,  he  loosens  her  hold,  kisses 
JANE  and  makes  a  sign  for  MAYNO  to  follow 
him.  They  both  go  out.  CUMBA  wrings  her 
hands  and  follows  him  toward  the  door.  Then 
she  becomes  calm.) 

CUMBA 

Let  him  go  off  now,  an'  I'll  never  see  'im  agin.  His 
sperit's  broke  and  he  won't  be  a-goin'  back  to  Georgy. 
I  see  it  in  his  face  that  he's  quittin'  it  all. 

JANE 

No'm  he  ain't,  he's  a-goin'  straight  back.  ...  He 
and  Steve  is. 

CUMBA 

No,  he  ain't  a-goin'  back.  Cain't  I  see  what's  in  his 
face?  They'll  git  'im  and  'twon't  be  long,  and  then 
Steve^'ll  be  shot  down  next,  and  there'll  be  only  a  hand 
ful  o'  their  clothes  for  me  to  look  at.  (JANE  weeps 
silently.)  Whar's  Mayno? 

JANE 
She's  jes'  stepped  out  a  minute.    She'll  be  back. 


144       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

CUMBA 

Yes,  and  I  know,  they're  goin'  to  git  'im.  They's 
a-setting  for  him  thar  in  the  black  night.- 

JANE 

No'm,  they  ain't,  I  tell  you.  They'll  never  git  Henry 
Berry.  (OLD  CUMBA  shakes  her  head  mumbling. 
She  goes  to  the  chest  at  the  left  and  takes  out  the  burlap 
bag.  The  lid  of  the  chest  falls.  JANE  starts  up.)  Put 
it  back,  put  it  back.  You  mustn't  look  at  'em  to-night. 
Come  back  to  the  fire. 

(She  tries  to  take  the  bag  from  her.) 

CUMBA 

No,  chil',  I  ain't.  I'm  goin'  to  look  at  all  that's  left 
of  'em. 

JANE 
Let  'em  be! 

CUMBA 

(Waving  her  off) 

No,  git  away.  Soon  Henry  Berry's  '11  be  in  there, 
too.  (She  stops  and  looks  at  the  bag.)  Janie,  who's 
been  f oolin'  wi'  this  ?  What's  .  .  . 

(She  hurries  to  the  table  and  holding  the  sack 
close  to  the  candle,  opens  it.  She  catches  hold 
of  a  coat  sleeve  and  draws  out  Steve's  coat.  A 
gasping  dry  sound  comes  from  her  throat.  She 
drops  the  bag  and  holds  the  coat  in  her  trem 
bling  hands.) 

It's  Steve's!  How  came  it  here?  It's  Steve's! — 
one  I  made  'im  myself. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES        145 

JANE 
Oh,  muh,  let  ...    What  ails  you  ? 

CUMBA 

I  s'picioned  it!    And  they  been  foolin'  me. 

JANE 

(Hopelessly) 
Yes'm,  it's  Steve's. 

( CUMBA  sways  to  and  fro.) 

CUMBA 

You  been  foolin' me!    You  been  foolin' me!     (She 
stands  rigid  for  a  moment,  then  speaks  in  a  hard,  life 
less  voice.)     It  warn't  right  to  fool  me  like  that 
When'd  it  happen  ? 

JANE 

Las'  week.  .  .  .  They  got  'im  down  on  the  big  road 
by  the  swamp,  an'  ... 

CUMBA 

Hush!  Don't  tell  me  'bout  it.  I'm  afflicted  and 
defeated  enough  now.  They's  only  one  left  and  they'll 
git  im  soon.  ...  Did  they  put  Steve  away  like  a 
man? 

JANE 
I  dunno.    The  sheriff  give  'is  clothes  to  me. 

(A  shot  is  heard  in  the  distance,  followed  by  a 
woman  s  scream.) 


146       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

CUMBA 

(Starting  up  and  speaking  in  a  shrill  voice) 
They  got  'im  now!    They  got  'im  now!    The  last 
un's  gone! 

(She  tries  to  go  out  at  the  door.    JANE  stops 
her.) 

JANE 

(Catching  her  by  the  arm) 
Don't  do  that! 

(CuMBA  goes  back  to  the  sack,  picks  up  STEVE'S 
coat  and  stares  at  it  dully.) 

CUMBA 
They  tuck  'em  all  now.    They  tuck  'em  all. 

JANE 
Muh,  it  had  to  come.    An'  it's  better  that-a-way. 

CUMBA 
(Lifelessly) 
Better  that-a-way? 

JANE 

Yes,  it's  better  like  that.  They  was  wrong  from  the 
jump. 

CUMBA 

Wrong !  My  boys  was  good  boys.  They  ain't  never 
.  .  .  (Raising  her  hands  above  her  head,  she  speaks 
fiercely.)  May  OF  Master  send  his  fires  on  them  that 
done  it!  An'  . 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES        147 

JANE 
{Sobbing) 
Oh,  why'd  they  do  it  I 

CUMBA 

No.  It  says  as  how  we'd  ought  to  love  'em  'at  does 
us  wrong. 

(She  closes  her  eyes,  swaying  slightly  from  side 
to  side.) 

JANE 

Let  me  help  you  to  lie  down  now! 

CUMBA 

Yes,  it's  better  that-a-way,  I  reckon.  (Her  face 
shows  resignation  to  sorrow.  She  speaks  with  a  sort 
of  joy  in  her  voice.)  An'  I  won't  be  livin'  in  hope  and 
fear  no  mo',  will  I?  (Slowly.)  And  when  the  owls 
hoot  through  the  swamp  at  night,  and  the  whippoor- 
wills  sing  in  the  thicket  at  dark,  I  won't  have  cause 
to  think  that's  one  o'  my  own  a-givin'  of  'is  signals,  an' 
tryin'  to  slip  back  to  'is  oP  home,  the  only  place  he  loves, 
— will  I  ?  (She  drops  down  into  the  chair  behind  the 
table.)  An'  I  won't  lie  awake  at  night,  thinkin'  they're 
in  danger  ...  for  He's  done  give  'em  His  peace  at 
last. 

(MAYNO  enters  running.     Old  CUMBA  stands 
up.) 

MAYNO 

He  shot  'isself.  He  shot  'isself!  He  give  me  this 
coat  to  give  to  you,  an'  then  the  sheriffs  crope  from  the 


148       THE  LAST  OF  THE  LOWRIES 

thicket  at  'im,  but  he  shot  'isself  'fore  they  got  to  'im, 

and  they  tuck  'im  and  toted  'im  off! 

(She  drops  into  her  chair  exhausted,  rocking  to 
and  fro.  Old  CUMBA  takes  the  coat  from  her, 
looks  at  it,  and  then  puts  it  in  the  sack.  She 
puts  STEVE'S  coat  in  also  and  stands  looking 
down  at  the  bag.) 

CUMBA 
That's  all  that's  left  o'  them  I  loved  ...  a  bundle 

o'  clothes  to  show  for  my  man  an'  four  grown  sons. 

(She  stops  an  instant.)     You'll  all  sleep  quiet  at  last. 

(She  stands  a  moment  silent,  then  shrilly.)     But  they're 

all  gone,  and  what  call  hev  I  got  to  be  living  more.  .  .  . 
(She  raises  her  hand  as  if  in  a  curse.  But  her 
face  softens,  and  as  the  curtain  falls,  she  stands 
with  both  hands  outstretched  on  the  clothes, 
blessing  them.^ 

1  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  actual  story  (see  Introduction 
page  xxyiii)  of  the  old  Lowrie  mother  somewhat  parallels  that  of 
Maurya  in  Synge's  Riders  to  the  Sea.  In  the  one  case  the  mother 
sees  her  sons  sacrificed  before  the  power  of  the  law.  In  the  other  she 
sees  them  claimed  by  the  terribleness  of  the  sea.  So  far  as  the  suffer 
ing  is  concerned,  the  forces  in  both  cases  might  be  the  same. 


APPENDIX 

THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  PLAYS 

Observations  on  the  Pronunciation  of  the  Dialects  of 
North  Carolina 

With  a  few  obvious  exceptions,  the  personages  de 
picted  in  the  dramas  here  printed  speak  one  or  another 
of  the  dialects  used  by  the  uncultured  whites  and 
negroes  of  North  Carolina.  In  connection  with  this 
effort  to  utilize  for  dramatic  purposes  the  folk  speech 
of  a  relatively  small  district  of  the  South,  several  facts 
should  be  borne  in  mind.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  an 
error  to  assume,  as  appears  to  be  done  frequently  out 
side  the  South,  that  all  Southern  whites  speak  prac 
tically  alike  and  that  the  difference  between  their  speech 
and  that  of  Southern  negroes  is  insignificant.  Al 
though,  it  is  true,  certain  peculiarities  of  pronunciation 
and  certain  turns  of  phrase  are  more  or  less  common  to 
all  speakers  of  English  in  the  South  Atlantic  States, 
considerable  differences  both  in  vocabulary  and  in  pro 
nunciation  are  discernible  between  numerous  districts 
of  this  section,  in  some  instances  even  when  these  dis 
tricts  adjoin  each  other.  The  dialect  spoken  by  the 
native  whites  of  eastern  North  Carolina,  for  example, 
is  markedly  different  from  that  of  the  Carolina  high 
lands,  and  among  the  Blue  Ridge  and  Alleghany 
149 


150    THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  PLAYS 

mountains  clear  variations  in  language  may  sometimes 
be  noted  as  one  passes  from  valley  to  valley  or  from 
"cove"  to  "cove."  Again,  although  it  is  true  that  the 
English-speaking  negroes  of  the  South,  having  bor 
rowed  their  language  from  the  whites,  have  much  in 
common  with  them  and  have  even  exerted  an  appre 
ciable  influence  upon  the  speech  of  their  white  neigh 
bors,  yet  no  Southerner  would  confuse  the  dialect  of  a 
typical  uneducated  Carolina  negro  with  that  of  even 
the  most  backward  Carolina  white.  Moreover,  in 
North  Carolina,  as  elsewhere,  dialect  varies  from  fam 
ily  to  family  and  from  individual  to  individual,  and 
even  the  same  person  changes  his  speech  to  suit  his 
humor,  his  company,  or  other  occasional  circumstances. 
What  Horace  Kephart  says  of  the  Carolina  mountain 
eer  is  true  of  the  uncultured  throughout  the  State.  "The 
same  man,"  writes  the  author  of  Our  Southern  High 
landers,  "at  different  times  may  say  can't  and  caint,  set 
and  sot,  jest  and  jes'  and  jist,  atter  and  arter,  seed  and 
seen,  here  and  hyur  and  hyar,  heerd  and  heern  and 
heard,  took  and  tuk."  These  facts,  obvious  as  they  are 
to  the  Southerner,  need  to  be  emphasized  if  this  volume 
is  to  be  read  intelligently  outside  the  South. 

It  should  also  be  observed  that  the  dialects  of  North 
Carolina,  like  those  of  other  districts,  cannot  be  cor 
rectly  represented  by  any  conventional  system  of 
printed  signs.  As  Professor  Sheldon  has  pointed  out, 
"the  written  [language]  ...  is,  speaking,  generally, 
only  a  later  and  inexact  representation  for  the  eye  of 
the  language  as  spoken,  that  is,  of  the  real  language," 
and,  with  an  alphabet  so  imperfect  as  ours,  it  is  clearly 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  PLAYS    151 

impossible  to  depict  accurately  even  the  more  obvious 
peculiarities  of  Southern  pronunciation,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  subtler  differences  between  the  various  speech- 
islands  of  the  South.  Few  of  the  differences  between 
North  Carolinese  and  standard  American  English  are 
capable  of  exact  representation  by  ordinary  letters ;  most 
of  them  are  so  elusive  as  to  escape  even  the  most  elab 
orate  system  of  phonetic  symbols.  In  the  words  of  a 
distinguished  authority  on  the  history  of  English  speech, 
"You  could  not  denote  [such  variations  in  language]  if 
you  would  and  if  you  could,  you  would  be  encumbered, 
rather  than  aided,  by  the  multiplicity  of  signs."  Or,  to 
adopt  the  language  of  a  queer  old  eighteenth  century 
spelling  reformer,  "delicate  ears  alone  can  discern 
what  only  delicate  organs  can  convey." 

In  view  of  these  difficulties,  it  became  necessary  to 
adopt  an  arbitrary  standard  of  spelling  for  the  dialects 
represented  in  this  volume.  In  establishing  this  norm 
the  editors  have  been  guided  by  several  considerations. 
To  begin  with,  as  may  be  observed  in  the  work  of  Synge 
and  other  serious  writers  of  dialect  literature,  success 
ful  dialect  writing  depends  rather  upon  picturesqueness 
of  vocabulary  and  idiom  than  upon  spelling.  In  the 
best  dialect  literature  spelling  is  of  purely  incidental 
value.  Again,  in  the  case  of  many  words  and  phrases 
the  difference  between  North  Carolinese  and  American 
English  as  spoken  by  all  except  the  most  careful  speak 
ers  outside  the  South,  is  too  slight  to  justify  any 
change  in  the  accepted  spelling.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  combined  labors  of  Southern  dialect  writers  for 
nearly  a  century  have  established  for  certain  words  and 


152    THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  PLAYS 

phrases  a  conventional  standard  which  has  come  to  be 
associated  in  the  public  mind  with  any  effort  to  repre 
sent  on  paper  the  speech  of  the  typical  Southerner.  In 
considering  the  matter  of  traditional  dialect  spelling,  a 
distinction  should,  however,  be  made  between  legiti 
mate  variations  from  standard  practice  and  those  spell 
ings  which  are  of  no  assistance  in  pronunciation  and  are 
merely  "bad."  Josh  Billings,  it  is  recorded,  began  his 
career  as  a  humorist  by  changing  his  famous  "Essa  on 
the  Muel"  from  ordinary  to  "phonetic"  spelling,  but 
most  of  Josh  Billings'  spellings,  however  funny  they 
may  have  been  to  our  fathers,  have  little  justification 
phonetically.  The  same  is  true  of  much  of  the  spell 
ing  used  by  Artemus  Ward,  Petroleum  V.  Nasby,  Sut 
Lovingood,  and  other  humorous  writers  who  have 
helped  to  establish  the  tradition  of  dialect  spelling  in 
America.  For  many  wrords  contained  in  the  dramas 
here  printed,  new  spellings  could  be  devised  which, 
regarded  phonetically,  would  perhaps  represent  the 
actual  Carolina  pronunciation  more  accurately  than 
either  the  standard  or  the  traditional  orthography; 
yet  any  such  gain  in  accuracy  would  in  most  cases  be 
more  than  offset  by  a  resulting  loss  in  intelligibility.  In 
view  of  these  facts  and  of  the  alarm  with  which  spell 
ing  reforms  are  liable  to  be  regarded  by  the  average 
reader,  it  has  been  deemed  advisable  to  depart  from 
standard  usage  only  in  those  cases  where  traditional 
practice  in  Southern  dialect  literature  clearly  points  the 
way  or  where  the  use  of  "phonetic"  spelling  runs  no 
risk  of  irritating  or  distracting  the  reader. 

Although  nothing  short  of  an  intimate  acquaintance 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  PLAYS     153 

with  spoken  North  Carolinese  can  insure  an  absolutely 
correct  pronunciation  of  the  written  language,  the  fol 
lowing  observations  may  be  of  assistance  to  readers 
who  know  the  dialects  of  the  South  chiefly  through  the 
medium  of  the  printed  page.  Owing  to  limitations  of 
space,  only  the  more  general  and  characteristic  pecu 
liarities  of  the  Carolina  dialects  can  be  considered  here. 
A  more  detailed  discussion  is  now  in  preparation  and 
will,  it  is  hoped,  appear  ere  long  in  Studies  in  Phil 
ology,  published  by  the  University  of  North  Carolina. 
As  regards  consonantal  sounds,  the  spelling  adopted 
in  this  volume  requires  little  comment.  In  general  the 
consonants,  except  r,  may  be  understood  to  have  the 
same  value  as  in  standard  American  English.  For  prac 
tical  purposes  it  may  be  assumed  that  r  is  omitted  by 
native  Carolinians  whenever  it  stands  before  other  con 
sonants  or  is  final.  The  result  is  usually  a  slight  change 
in  the  quality  or  length  of  the  preceding  vowel.  Thus 
floor  and  tore  are  practically  indistinguishable  in  pro 
nunciation  from  floiv  and  toe,  and  the  Carolina 
pronunciation  of  corn  rhymes  with  the  standard  pro 
nunciation  of  daiun.  There  is  also  a  strong  tendency 
to  omit  the  r-sound  between  vowels  (as  in  beyin  for 
burying  [a  funeral]  and  ve'y  for  very),  and  even  in 
some  cases  when  it  stands  after  a  consonant  and  before 
a  vowel  (as  in  hundred  for  hundred  and  p'oduce  for 
produce).  In  order  to  avoid  undue  distortion  in  the 
form  of  the  words,  r  is  generally  retained  in  the  spell 
ing  here  used  except  in  forms  such  as  cuss  for  curse, 
fust  for  first,  and  nuss  for  nurse,  where  the  meaning 
is  easily  identified  and  the  spelling  is  clearly  justified 


154    THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  PLAYS 

by  tradition.  The  combination  er  is  also  freely  used, 
especially  in  final  position,  to  represent  the  indistinct 
sound  heard  in  the  Carolina  pronunciation  of  such 
words  as  tobacco  but  lacking  in  more  exact  speech. 

As  appears  from  the  examination  of  a  large  body  of 
dialect  literature,  the  practice  of  spelling  together 
groups  of  words  pronounced  as  a  unit  is  frequently  open 
to  objection ;  hence  it  has  been  followed  here  only  in  a 
few  well  established  cases  such  as  gimme  for  give  me, 
mebbe  for  maybe,  and  nemmine  for  never  mind.  The 
highly  characteristic  Southern  pronunciation  of  you  all 
(practically  yawl)  is  indicated  merely  by  a  hyphen 
(you-all). 

Of  the  many  phonetic  differences  between  the  dialects 
of  North  Carolina  and  standard  American  or  English 
usage,  several  require  special  attention. 

For  the  short  o  sound  heard  in  the  standard  English 
pronunciation  of  cob,  dog,  fog,  frog,  God,  gone,  gospel, 
hog,  and  similar  words,  the  typical  uncultured 
North  Carolinian  generally  substitutes  a  sound  closely 
approximating  that  of  the  vowel  in  law.  Or,  to  put  it 
another  way,  in  North  Carolina  God  rhymes  with 
sawed,  and  hog  is  pronounced  as  though  it  were  spelled 
hawg. 

The  dialects  of  North  Carolina  show  few  traces  of 
the  so-called  "broad  a"  and  none  at  all  of  the  middle 
or  Continental  a  recommended  by  the  dictionaries  for 
such  words  as  branch,  can't,  France,  and  grass.  Except 
before  r  the  sound  in  such  cases  is  usually  that  of  a  in 
lamb,  sometimes  slightly  drawled.  The  same  vowel  is 
heard  in  the  Carolina  pronunciation  of  ant,  aunt,  bath, 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  PLAYS    155 

calf,  dance,  gape,  half,  and  similar  words.  Thus,  in 
eastern  North  Carolina,  calm,  palm,  and  psalm  rhyme 
with  dam.  When  the  a  sound  (written  a  or  ea)  pre 
cedes  r,  the  r  practically  disappears  and  the  vowel  ap 
proaches  the  sound  of  aw  in  law  so  closely  as  to  be 
easily  distinguishable  from  the  New  England  pronun 
ciation  of  a  in  the  same  position.  Thus,  in  North  Car 
olina  yard,  though  not  quite  a  perfect  rhyme  for  sawed, 
is  much  more  nearly  so  than  it  is  for  hard  as  pronounced 
by  the  New  Englander.  (Cf.  Dialect  Notes,  I,  34.) 
As  elsewhere  in  the  South  Atlantic  States,  the  "broad 
a"  is  most  frequently  heard  in  the  eastern  Carolina 
pronunciation  of  ask,  ma,  master,  pa!  A  character 
istic  though  not  exclusively  Carolina  pronunciation  is 
caint  (cf.  ain't)  for  cant.  In  calf,  can't,  car,  carpet, 
Carter,  garden,  (re) guard (s) ,  and  other  words  in 
which  the  accented  a  is  preceded  by  a  c  or  g(u), 
the  glide-sound  following  the  consonant  and  popu 
larly  supposed  to  be  an  earmark  of  aristocracy  in 
eastern  Virginia  and  North  Carolina,  is  seldom  heard 
except  among  negroes  and  whites  of  the  older  genera 
tion. 

In  the  North  Carolina  pronunciation  of  apple,  ash, 
bag,  candle,  cash,  have,  rabbit,  saddle,  spasm,  and  simi 
lar  words,  the  accented  vowel  is  generally  somewhat 
flattened  and  is  occasionally  drawled.  Important  excep 
tions  are  ketch  for  catch,  chomp  for  champ,  flop  for 
flap,  stomp  for  stamp,  strop  for  strap,  tossel  for  tassel, 
and  tromp(le)  for  tramp (le) .  A  similar  substitution 
is  frequently  heard  in  the  pronunciation  of  barrel,  bar 
row,  narrow,  spargus  (asparagus),  and  sparrow. 


156    THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  PLAYS 

The  short  e  sound  heard  in  the  standard  pronuncia 
tion  of  any,  bed,  bury,  dead,  friend,  heifer,  Reynolds, 
said,  says,  and  similar  words  is  not  uniformly  pre 
served  in  the  dialects  of  North  Carolina.  A  frequent 
and  characteristic  substitute  is  short  i,  especially  as  in 
Anglo-Irish,  before  m  or  n.  Thus  end  becomes  ind; 
Evans,  Ivans  or  Ivins;  fence,  fince;  Jenny,  Jinny;  men, 
mm;  pen,  pin;  yesterday,  yistidy.  Short  i  is  also  the 
accepted  vowel  in  the  Carolina  pronunciation  of  again f 
get,  kettle,  project,  ten,  and  yet.  Again,  among 
negroes  and  uneducated  whites  the  accented  vowel  of 
dead,  edge,  leg,  neck,  and  sedge  is  frequently  replaced 
by  the  sound  of  a  in  age.  Keg,  wrestle,  yellow,  yesf 
and  a  few  other  words  occasionally  have  the  same 
accented  vowel  as  rag,  and  in  the  more  remote  dis 
tricts  deaf  rhymes  with  leaf. 

Among  negroes  and  certain  rustics  bear,  declare, 
fair,  stair,  pair,  swear,  their,  there,  and  similar  words 
requently  have  the  same  accented  vowel  as  bar  and  star, 
but  care,  scare,  and  scarce  are  pronounced  as  though 
spelled  keer,  sheer,  and  skeerce.  In  the  pronunciation 
of  negroes  scarce  rhymes  with  face. 

The  obscure  vowel  sound  heard  in  the  standard  pro 
nunciation  of  the  unaccented  syllables  of  such  words  as 
ago,  children,  China,  cupboard,  famous,  liquor,  mother, 
and  nation  is  not  only  preserved  in  the  Carolina  pro 
nunciation  of  these  and  similar  words,  but  is  often 
substituted  where  in  more  precise  enunciation  other 
vowels  are  required.  Its  extensive  occurrence  is  one 
of  the  chief  indications  of  the  "laziness"  frequently 
charged  against  Southern  speakers  generally.  Because 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  PLAYS    157 

of  the  practical  impossibility  of  representing  with  ordi 
nary  letters  the  more  difficult  examples  of  slurring  in 
the  dialects  of  North  Carolina  without  deforming  the 
words  beyond  recognition,  the  standard  spelling  is  pre 
served  except  in  a  few  cases  where  tradition  justifies 
the  substitution  of  o,  a,  or  er. 

For  the  short  e  sound  heard  in  the  standard  pro 
nunciation  of  certain,  learn,  search,  serve,  and  similar 
words,  mountaineers  and  negroes  are  likely  to  substi 
tute  the  a  sound  of  Clark.  Heard  is  frequently  pro 
nounced  hyeard.  Girl  may  become  gall;  the  pronun 
ciation  gyerl  is  confined  to  a  few  older  whites  and 
negroes. 

In  been,  breeches,  sleek,  teat,  and  a  few  other  words, 
the  accented  vowel  of  standard  pronunciation  is  uni 
formly  replaced  by  that  of  bit.  Creature  is  pronounced 
creeter  or  critter. 

For  the  accented  short  i  heard  in  the  standard  pro 
nunciation  of  such  words  as  bring,  dinner,  hinder,  linen, 
miraclef  pith,  pin,  since,  spirit,  thin,  thing,  think,  the 
uneducated  Carolinian  is  likely  to  substitute  a  short  e 
sound.  That  is  to  say,  in  the  mouth  of  the  typical 
uncultured  speaker  the  accented  vowel  of  pith  and 
hinder  is  that  heard  in  the  standard  pronunciation  of 
death  and  tender.  Other  noteworthy  departures  from 
standard  pronunciation  are  genuaine  for  genuine,  favor- 
aite  for  favorite,  highstrikes  for  hysterics,  reptaile  for 
reptile,  eetch  for  itch,  and  mischeevous  for  mischievous. 
In  North  Carolinese  the  universal  pronunciation  of 
Mrs.  is  merely  Miz,  with  the  final  consonant  somewhat 
prolonged.  (Cf.  Krapp,  The  Pronunciation  of  Stand- 


158    THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  PLAYS 

ard  English  in  America,  New  York,  1919,  p.  122.) 
For  the  accented  vowel  of  boar,  bore,  door,  floor, 
force,  gourd,  porch,  pork,  and  most  other1  words  of  the 
same  class,  the  native  Carolinian  substitutes  a  long  o. 
The  r  is  of  course  lost.  Thus,  in  typical  North  Caro- 
linese  of  the  remote  rural  districts  boar,  door,  floor, 
and  sore  are  homonymous  respectively  with  beau, 
dough,  flow,  and  sew.  Noteworthy  also  are  the  pro 
nunciations  janders  for  jaundice,  sassy  for  saucy,  and 
f award  for  forward. 

The  u  sound  heard  in  the  standard  English  pro 
nunciation  of  lose  requires  special  consideration.  As  in 
certain  sections  of  America  outside  North  Carolina, 
food,  proof,  roof,  root,  soon,  spoon,  and  certain  other 
words  have  the  sound  of  oo  heard  in  balloon,  whereas 
butcher,  broom,  coop,  Cooper,  hoof,  hoop,  Hooper, 
and  room  have  a  short  u  sound  like  that  heard  in 
the  standard  pronunciation  of  bush.  Again,  in  the 
Carolina  pronunciation  of  cute,  dew,  due,  duty,  stew, 
tune,  and  Tuesday,  the  accented  vowel  is  preceded  by 
a  glide  sound  as  though  the  words  in  question  were 
spelled  cyute,  etc.;  in  absolutely),  blue,  deuce,  glue, 
Lucy,  Luke,  rude,  Sue,  true,  and  most  other  words  of 
this  class  the  glide  is  never  present.  In  North  Caro 
lina,  as  elsewhere  in  the  South,  the  "correct"  differ 
entiation  in  this  matter  is  one  of  the  best  criteria  of 
native  speech.  No  North  Carolinian  of  uncontami- 
nated  linguistic  habits  would,  for  example,  pronounce 
"New  tunes  are  due  to  Sue,"  Noo  toons  are  doo  to  Syue. 
A  noteworthy  departure  from  the  accented  vowel 
heard  in  the  standard  pronunciation  of  such  words  as 
pull,  woman,  wood,  are  put,  took,  and  soot,  which 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  PLAYS    159 

among  older  speakers  generally  rhyme  respectively  with 
gut,  tuck,  and  smut. 

For  the  so-called  "long  i"  of  standard  usage  the  Caro 
lina  lowlander  frequently  substitutes  a  sound  composed 
of  the  u  of  but  followed  by  the  vowel  of  tea.  In  a 
number  of  words — notably  advice,  (al) might (y), 
bite,  cipher,  (de)  light,  disciple,  ice,  like,  mice,  nice, 
night,  right (eous),  title,  trifle,  and  twice — the  latter  is 
the  accepted  pronunciation  along  the  coast  as  in  other 
parts  of  the  South  Atlantic  seaboard,  and  its  "correct" 
usage  is  one  of  the  best  linguistic  earmarks  of  the  native 
Southerner.  In  the  matter  of  "long  i"  the  Carolina 
mountaineer  is  much  closer  than  the  lowlander  to  the 
ordinary  pronunciation  in  the  North  and  the  Middle 
West. 

Analogous  to  the  treatment  of  "long  i'  is  that  of 
the  ou  sound  heard  in  the  standard  pronunciation  of 
couch  and  town.  Most  words  containing  this  sound 
are  pronounced  much  as  they  are  outside  the  South, 
but  in  certain  cases — notably  doubt,  house,  louse,  mouse, 
mouth,  and  south — the  first  element  of  the  diphthong  is 
replaced  by  the  vowel  of  met.  Less  frequently  the  same 
combination  of  short  e  and  u  is  heard  in  cow,  cloud, 
down,  flour,  flower,  found,  foul,  fowl,  how,  howl,  now, 
plough,  and  sow  (a  female  hog).  The  ability  to  use 
this  sound  "correctly"  is  another  excellent  test  of 
Southern  speech.  Among  the  mountains  the  au  sound 
appears  to  be  the  rule.  Except  in  the  most  remote  dis 
tricts  the  diphthong  lacks  the  flat,  nasal,  drawl  adopted 
by  many  Northerners  who  attempt  to  imitate  Southern 
dialect. 

For  the  oi  sound  heard  in  the  standard  pronunciation 


160    THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  PLAYS 

of  such  words  as  anoint,  hoist,  join(t),  joist,  point,  poi 
son,  spoil,  and  tenderloin,  negroes,  mountaineers,  and 
other  ultra-conservative  speakers  substitute  "long  i" 

TOM  PEETE  CROSS. 
The  University  of  Chicago. 


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The  book  is  extremely  well  done.  .  .  .  To  its  public  it  will 
be  indispensable. — Chicago  Evening  Post. 

The  first  book  which  has  come  forth  which  treats  all  the 
important  phases  of  a  little  theater. — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

An  excellent  book.  .  .  .  Knows  his  subject  well. — Boston 
Herald. 

HENRY     HOLT    AND     COMPANY 


BY  CONSTANCE  D'ARCY  MACKAY 

THE  LITTLE  THEATRE  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 
An  account  of  our  principal  little  theatres,  describing  each 
with  its  history,  policy,  achievement,  repertory,  lighting, 
scenery,  etc.  There  are  also  chapters  covering  The  North 
ampton  Municipal  Theatre,  the  New  Theatre  experiment,  the 
repertory  system,  and  the  cost  of  maintaining  a  Little  Theatre. 
With  over  20  unusual  illustrations  and  a  so-page  index. 
277  pp.  $2.50. 

Walter  Pritchard  Eaton:  "Not  only  of  great  value  to  the  student, 
but  a  great  stimulation  to  the  Little  Theatre  managers,  to  writers,  and 
to  ambitious  amateurs  everywhere.  ...  I  shall  find  occasion  to  make 
much  use  of  the  book  this  winter,  I  am  sure,  and  to  recommend  it." 

COSTUMES  AND  SCENERY  FOR  AMATEURS 

This  book  includes  chapters  on  Amateurs  and  the  New 
Stage  Art,  Costumes,  and  Scenery,  but  consists  mainly  of 
simple  outline  designs  for  costumes  for  historical  plays,  par 
ticularly  American  Pageants,  folk,  fairy,  and  romantic  plays 
— also  of  scenes,  including  interiors,  exteriors,  and  a  scheme 
for  a  Greek  Theatre,  all  drawn  to  scale.  Throughout,  color 
schemes,  economy,  and  simplicity  are  kept  in  view,  and 
ingenious  ways  are  given  to  adapt  the  same  costumes  or 
scenes  to  several  different  uses.  With  over  70  illustrations  and 
full  index.  258  pp.  $1.75. 

HOW  TO  PRODUCE  CHILDREN'S  PLAYS 
After  treating  of  the  history  of  the  children's  play  move 
ment,  its  sociological  aspects,  and  suggestions  for  new  fields, 
there  come  chapters  on  play-producing  scenery,  costumes  and 
properties.  The  book  discusses  the  special  needs  of  public 
schools,  social  settlements  and  camps,  and  has  lists  of  plays 
for  such  places.  There  is  a  bibliography  of  the  whole  child- 
drama  movement.  151  pp.  $1.35- 

PATRIOTIC  DRAMA  IN  YOUR  TOWN 
Miss  Mackay  sketches  the  main  essentials  with  which  any 
fair-sized  town  may  have  pageants,  A  Little  Theatre,  or  an 
Outdoor  Theatre.  She  also  gives  detailed  suggestions  for 
community  Fourth  of  July  and  Christmas  Celebrations,  etc. 
135  pp.  $1.35. 

A  circular  Including  Miss  Mackay's  popular  plays  for 
young  and  old,  free  on  application  to 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  (io'22)  NEW  YORK 


BY  CLAYTON  HAMILTON 
STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

CONTENTS:  The  New  Art  of  Making  Plays,  The  Pictorial 
Stage,  The  Drama  of  Illusion,  The  Modern  Art  of  Stage 
Direction,  A  Plea  for  a  New  Type  of  Play,  The  Undramatic 
Drama,  The  Value  of  Stage  Conventions,  The  Supernatural 
Drama,  The  Irish  National  Theatre,  The  Personality  of  the 
Playwright,  Where  to  Begin  a  Play,  Continuity  of  Structure, 
Rhythm  and  Tempo,  The  Plays  of  Yesteryear,  A  New  De 
fense  of  Melodrama,  The  Art  of  the  Moving- Picture  Play, 
The  One-Act  Play  in  America,  Organizing  an  Audience,  The 
Function  of  Dramatic  Criticism,  etc.,  etc.  $2.25  net. 

Nation:  "Information,  alertness,  coolness,  sanity  and  the  command 
of  a  forceful  and  pointed  English.  ...  A  good  book,  in  spite  of 
all  deductions." 

Prof.   Archibald  Henderson,   in  The  Drama:     "Uniformly  excellent  in 
quality.      .      .      .      Continuously      interesting      in      presentation      .      . 
uniform  for  high  excellence  and  elevated   standards.     .     .     ." 

Athenaeum  (London) :  "His  discussions,  though  incomplete,  are 
sufficiently  provocative  of  thought  to  be  well  worth  reading." 

THE  THEORY  OF  THE  THEATRE 

THB  THEORY  OF  THE  THEATRE.— What  is  a  Play?— The 
Psychology  of  Theatre  Audiences.— The  Actor  and  the  Dra 
matist. — Stage  Conventions  in  Modern  Times. — The  Four 
Leading  Types  of  Drama:  Tragedy  and  Melodrama;  Comedy 
and  Farce. — The  Modern  Social  Drama,  etc.,  etc. 

OTHER  PRINCIPLES  OF  DRAMATIC  CRITICISM. — The  Public 
and  the  Dramatist. — Dramatic  Art  and  the  Theatre  Business. 
—Dramatic  Literature  and  Theatric  Journalism. — The  Inten 
tion  of  Performance. — The  Quality  of  New  Endeavor. — 
Pleasant  and  Unpleasant  Plays. — Themes  in  the  Theatre. — 
The  Function  of  Imagination,  etc.,  etc.  $2.25  net. 

Bookman:  "Presents  coherently  a  more  substantial  body  of  idea  on 
the  subject  than  perhaps  elsewhere  accessible." 

Boston  Transcript:  "At  every  moment  of  his  discussion  he  has  a 
firm  grasp  upon  every  phase  of  the  subject." 


PROBLEMS  OF  THE  PLAYWRIGHT 

This  is  probably  even  more  interesting  than  the  author's 
popular  Theory  of  the  Theatre  or  than  his  Studies  in  Stagecraft 
and  is  somewhat  longer  and  more  varied  than  either  of  its 
predecessors.  It  represents  the  best  of  his  work  for  several 
recent  years.  $2.25  net. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


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